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The Ancient Ballads

Edward

The American Folk Experience

Edward

by John Fitzsimmons | The American Folk Experience

Child Ballad #13

What makes that blood on the point of your knife?
My son, now tell to me
It is the blood of my old grey mare
Who plowed the fields for me, me, me
Who plowed the fields for me.

It is too red for your old grey mare
My son, now tell to me
It is the blood of my old coon dog
Who chased the fox for me, me me
Who chased the fox for me.

It is too red for your old coon dog
My son, now tell to me
It is the blood of my brother John
Who hoed the corn for me, me, me
Who hoed the corn for me.

What did you fall out about?
My son, now tell to me
Because he cut yon holly bush
Which might have been a tree, tree, tree
Which might have been a tree.

What will you say when your father comes back
When he comes home from town?
I’ll set my foot in yonder boat
And sail the ocean round, round, round
I’ll sail the ocean round.

When will you come back, my own dear son?
My son, now tell to me
When the sun it sets in yonder sycamore tree
And that will never be, be, be
And that will never be.

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I am indebted to the many friends who share my love of traditional songs and to the many scholars whose works are too many to include here. I am also incredibly grateful to the collector’s curators and collators of Wikipedia, Mudcat.org, MainlyNorfolk.info, and TheContemplator.com for their wise, thorough and informative contributions to the study of folk music. 

I share their research on my site with humility, thanks, and gratitude. Please cite their work accordingly with your own research. If you have any research or sites you would like to share on this site, please post in the comment box.  Thanks!

Source: Wikipedia

"Edward" is a traditional murder ballad existing in several variants, categorised by Francis James Child as Child Ballad number 13[1] and listed as number 200 in the Roud Folk Song Index. The ballad, which is at least 250 years old (a text of its Swedish counterpart has been dated to the mid-17th century[2]), has been documented and recorded numerous times across the English speaking world into the twentieth century.

Synopsis

A mother questions her son about the blood on his "sword" (most likely a hunting knife, given the era when the story is occurring). He avoids her interrogation at first, claiming that it is his hawk or his horse (or some other kind of animal depending on the variation of the song), but finally admits that it is his brother, or his father, whom he has killed. He declares that he is leaving and will never return, and various creatures (wife, children, livestock) will have to fare without him. His mother then asks what she will get from his departure. He answers "a curse from hell" and implicates his mother in the murder.

Traditional recordings

Several Appalachian musicians recorded the ballad; Jean Ritchie sang the Ritchie family version in 1946 with her sister (recorded by Mary Elizabeth Barnacle)[3] and in 1961 on the album Jean Ritchie: Ballads from her Appalachian Family Tradition,[4] whilst Bascom Lamar Lunsford (1935),[5] Horton Barker (1941),[6] and Almeida Riddle (1972)[7] also had their traditional versions recorded. The children's writer Edith Ballinger Price was recorded by Helen Hartness Flanders performing a traditional version in 1945.[8]

The song was recorded a handful of times in England; Mike Yates recorded Frank Hinchliffe of Sheffield, Yorkshire singing his version in 1977[9] and Danny Brazil of Gloucestershire singing a different version the following year.[10] George Dunn of Quarry Bank, Staffordshire was recorded by Roy Parmer singing another version in 1971, which can be heard online via the Vaughan Williams Memorial Library.[11]

In Scotland, the song was generally known as "My Son David". Recordings were made of traditional Scottish traveller Jeannie Robertson (1953),[12][13] her nephew Stanley Robertson (1987)[14] and daughter Lizzie Higgins (1970)[15] singing the ballad; Lizzie Higgins' recording publicly available on the Vaughan Williams Memorial Library website.[15]

Irish traditional singers such as Thomas Moran of Mohill, Co. Leitrim (1954),[16] John "Jacko" Reilly of Boyle, Co. Roscommon (1967),[17] Paddy Tunney of Co. Fermanagh (1976)[18] and Christy Moore of Co. Kildare were also recorded singing versions of the ballad. Versions collected orally in Ireland are usually named "What Put the Blood" or something similar. Tunney's version, for example, (released on his Folk-Legacy CD The Man of Songs) was entitled "What put the Blood on Your Right Shoulder, Son?"[19]

Parallels

This ballad may not be complete in itself. Large portions of the ballad are also found in the longer ballads "The Twa Brothers" (Child 49) and "Lizie Wan" (Child 51).[20]

Parallels in other languages

This ballad type was also found in Northern Europe, where it is often known under "Svend i Rosensgård" or a similar name. Its general Scandinavian classification is TSB D 320, and it is known in Danish (DgF 340), Icelandic (IFkv 76), Norwegian, and Swedish (SMB 153). In Finland, it is popular as "Poikani Poloinen", both as a poem and as a song, first published in the collection Kanteletar.

In the Scandinavian versions, and the Finnish one, the stress is more on the gradual divulge of the fact that the son will never return home to his mother.

Percy's "Edward"

The authenticity of one popular version of this ballad (Child 13B) has been called into question.[21] This version originally appeared in print in Bishop Thomas Percy's 1765 edition of Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. Percy reported that he received this Scottish ballad from Sir David Dalrymple, who said he heard it from an unnamed lady. This version appears inauthentic because it seems, in short, too "good": it makes exceptional use of literary devices for maximum impact. Moreover, unlike most other versions, the father is the victim rather than the brother, and the mother receives a curse at the end. There is also little evidence that this version was disseminated orally; it seems to have appeared most often in print form. The name "Edward" appears to have come from Percy's version; versions which seem to have existed independently of Percy's don't use this name for the protagonist.[22]

Adaptations

See also

References

  1. ^ Francis James Child, English and Scottish Popular Ballads, "Edward"
  2. ^ Jonsson, Bengt R., ed. (1983–1996). Sveriges medeltida ballader (in Swedish). Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. p. 160. ISBN 91-22-01733-X. Retrieved 13 November 2022.
  3. ^ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S273288)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  4. ^ "Jean Ritchie: Ballads from her Appalachian Family Tradition". Smithsonian Folkways Recordings. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  5. ^ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S259329)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  6. ^ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S397837)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  7. ^ "The Blood of the Old Rooster (Roud Folksong Index S169512)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  8. ^ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S233995)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  9. ^ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S340552)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  10. ^ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S340575)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  11. ^ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S233987)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  12. ^ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S174287)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  13. ^ "Son David (Roud Folksong Index S161735)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  14. ^ "My Son David (Roud Folksong Index S433934)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  15. ^ a b "Son David (Roud Folksong Index S304847)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  16. ^ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S233972)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  17. ^ "What Put the Blood (Roud Folksong Index S255692)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  18. ^ "What Brought the Blood (Roud Folksong Index S165011)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  19. ^ "O'er his grave the grass grew green", Tragic Ballads, The Voice of the People vol. 3, Topic TSCD 653 (1975)
  20. ^ Francis James Child, The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, vol. 1, p. 167, Dover Publications, New York 1965
  21. ^ Most notable is Bertrand Bronson in "Edward, Edward. A Scottish Ballad and a Footnote," in The Ballad as Song (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1969).
  22. ^ "The Yorkshire Garland Group". www.yorkshirefolksong.net. Retrieved 2020-12-31.
  23. ^ John Reilly, Topic 12T 359, 1969 ("The Bonny Green Tree")
  24. ^ Folktrax 175-C60 ("John Reilly"), 1967
  25. ^ "Six Duets (Шесть дуэтов)", Tchaikovsky Research
source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_(ballad)

Source: Mainly Norfolk

Edward / My Son David / Henry

[ Roud 200 ; Child 13 ; TYG 35 ; Ballad Index C013 ; trad.]Jeannie Robertson sang My Son David to Alan Lomax in London in November 1953. This recording was included in 1961 on the Tradition Records LPHeather and Glen and in 1998 on the Rounder CD The Queen Among the Heather. Another recording made by Peter Kennedy was included in 1955 on the HMV LP Folk Song Today.

Angela Brazil, Weenie Brazil, and Alice Webb’s son sang three versions of Son Come Tell It Unto Me in recordings made in 1954, 1955 and 1968. They were all included in 2007 on the Brazil Family’s Musical Tradition anthology Down By the Old Riverside. The accompanying booklet commented:

This was also sung by Lemmie, Alice, Danny and Tom [Brazil], so it could be considered the family’s favourite song. One of the most striking things about these recordings of a significant number of singers from one family, is that—given the slight variations of text and melody from one singer to another—it seems fairly clear that all family members got their songs from one source; most likely their parents, or even grandparents.

Son Come Tell It Unto Me is unusual in that here we have three completely different tunes to the same song from three singers; Weenie’s is essentially the Family one, whilst Angela’s and young Mr Webb’s are not. (…)

This is a very popular song with 236 Roud entries, of which 59 are sound recordings. The great majority are from the USA (148 entries) and Scotland (46 entries). Only 4 other singers from England are named.

Danny Brazil sang another version, called The Two Turtle Doves, to Mike Yates in Gloucester in 1979. This was printed in 2006 in Yates EFDSS book of songs of English and Scottish travellers and gypsies, Traveller’s Joy.

Ewan MacColl sang My Son David in 1956 on his and A.L. Lloyd’s Riverside anthology The English and Scottish Popular Ballads (The Child Ballads) Volume II. This song and 28 other from this series were reissued in 2009 on his Topic double CD set Ballads: Murder·Intrigue·Love·Discord. Kenneth S. Goldstein commented in the album’s booklet:

The high esteem in which Child held this ballad is indicated by the statement in his introductory notes: “Edward … has ever been regarded as one of the noblest and most sterling specimens of the popular ballad.” Such praise is entirely deserved, for the ballad, employing throughout a simple dialogue device, builds to a climatic emotional peak unsurpassed in any other Child ballad.

The ballad is known in the Northern countries of Europe, the dialogue form being maintained in every instance. Since Child’s time, most reported texts do not implicate the mother in the crime, which in almost every case is fratricide (rather than patricide as in the Child “B” text). Archer Taylor, in his full-length study of the ballad, feels the fratricide factor relates recent findings to the earliest Scandinavian forms of the ballad, whence the English versions stem.

The ballad has been collected rather frequently in America; until recently it had been unreported in Britain for many years.

MacColl’s version was learned from Jeannie Robertson, housewife and former tinker from Aberdeen.

The anthology The Child Ballads 1: The English and Scottish Popular Ballads Numbers 2-95 (The Folk Songs of Britain Volume 4; Caedmon 1961; Topic 1968) has a track of Edward / My Son David that is patched up of verses from Jeannie Robertson, Paddy Tunney, and Angela Brazil.

Norman Kennedy sang My Son David in 1965 on the Topic LP New Voices from Scotland.

John Reilly sang What Put the Blood? to Tom Munnelly in his own home in Dublin in Winter 1967. This recording was released ten years later on his Topic album The Bonny Green Tree: Songs of an Irish Traveller.

Lizzie Higgins sang My Son David in a 1970 recording in Aberdeen made by Allie Munro. This was published on the 2006 Musical Traditions anthology In Memory of Lizzie Higgins. Rod Stradling commented in the album’s booklet:

This old ballad is almost universally called Edward (or something similar), and the Son David title appears only in Scotland. (…) When Hamish Henderson ‘discovered’ Jeannie Robertson in 1953 and demonstrated her repertoire to the world, this particular ballad caused a sensation amongst scholars, as it had been thought to have been completely lost from the oral traditions for well over a hundred years, and caused the rest of her repertoire to be examined with the greatest of interest. (…) Considering this very much her mother’s song, requiring Jeannie’s “big classical ballad” style, Lizzie nevertheless went on to perform it after her death.

Nic Jones, accompanying himself on fiddle, sang the grisly dialogue Edward in 1971 on his eponymous second album, Nic Jones. He commented in the album notes:

This is more or less a version of a large group of songs under the various titles of Edward, Lizzie Wan, Lucy Wan, What Blood is This?, etc. In this version the whole incident turns on the seemingly irrelevant statement:

It’s all about a little holly bush
That might have made a tree.

The lines are possibly explained by a glance at some of the other versions, where the son has made love to his sister and subsequently killed her when she turns out to be pregnant. The holly bush could reasonably represent some kind of guarded reference to this incident; the incident itself having been excluded from the song.

John Wesley Harding also sang this song on his Nic Jones tribute album, Trad Arr Jones.

George Dunn sang Edward in a recording made by Bill Leader in December 1971 on his eponymous 1973 Leader album, George Dunn. Another fragment of this song, recorded by Roy Palmer on December 3, 1971 was included in 2002 on Dunn’s Musical Tradition anthology Chainmaker.

Isabel Sutherland sang Son Davie on her eponymous 1974 EFDSS album, Isabel Sutherland.

Paddy Tunney sang What Brought the Blood? with quite a different story-line on his 1976 Topic album, The Flowery Vale. This track was also included in 1998 on the Topic anthology O’er His Grave the Grass Grew Green (The Voice of the People Volume 3). Another version of What Put the Blood?, sung by Mary Delaney, is on volume 17 of this series, It Fell on a Day, a Bonny Summer Day. Cathal Ó Baoill commented in Tunney’s album’s sleeve notes:

In this old English ballad we are given a slight clue as to a possible background of the story when Paddy sings, “all through mother’s treachery”.

In the version I heard from Frank Quinn on the Lough Neagh Shore the involvement of the mother was never mentioned in the text, so that the whole tale of her guile and her hidden desire for the inheritance of both her sons had to be told as a preliminary to the singing. Different versions suggest different motives, but in any case the story of how the boy is driven away from home to avoid his father’s anger is clear enough in every version. The Lough Neagh version also included a localising verse which said,

What will you do in the winter of your life,
Like a saggin on the Lough I’ll bow with the wind.

Frank Hinchliffe sang Edward on his 1977 Topic album of traditional songs from South Yorkshire, In Sheffield Park.

Steeleye Span recorded Edward with somewhat changed lyrics courtesy of Bob Johnson in 1986 for their album Back in Line. A live recording from The Forum, London on September 2, 1995 was released on the CD The Journey.

Chris Coe sang Edward in 2001 on her Backshift CD A Wiser Fool.

Kieron Means sang Edward in 2003 on his Tradition Bearers CD of North American songs and ballads, Run Mountain. His mother Sara Grey commented in the album’s notes:

From the singing of Donal McGuire, a great singer from Ireland who has lived for several years in East Lancashire, England. It is the biblical parable of Cain and Abel. It has never been regarded as one of the best examples of popular ballads, it’s more like a detached part of a ballad rather than a complete one. It is known to have Finnish and Swedish counterparts. These Scandinavian versions are closer to the American ones but the ‘Edward’ story was too strong for Americans. The mother had no part in the crime, as she did in Scottish versions. There’s no more powerful ending in a ballad than the final realisation that the mother helped in or committed the murder of her son. Being ‘put to sea’ was a medieval punishment for fratricide.

The Demon Barbers learned Edward from Nic Jones’ Trailer album and sang it in 2005 on their CD Waxed.

Jeana Leslie and Siobhan Miller sang Edward in 2008 on their Greentrax CD In a Bleeze.

Al O’Donnell sang What Put the Blood? in 2008 on his CD Ramble Away.

Rubus sang My Son David in 2008 on their CD Nine Witch Knots. Emily Portman commented in their liner notes:

Perhaps the sequel to Rolling of the Stones, here a mother gradually uncovers the truth about the origin of the blood on her son’s sword. I imagine that this mother already knows what has happened, as mothers often do. The incomparable Louis Killen gave me this song, whose own source is Jeannie Robertson.

Nick Wyke & Becki Driscoll sang Edward on their 2009 CD Beneath the Black Tree.

Alasdair Roberts sang What Put the Blood on Your Right Shoulder, Son? in 2010 on his CD Too Long in This Condition.

June Tabor and Jon Jones sang My Son David in 2011 on her and the Oysterband’s second collaboration, Ragged Kingdom. Their sleeve notes commented:

From the singing of Margaret Stewart of Aberdeen. Long thought to be preserved only in Scandinavian and American traditions, this ancient ballad of mindless violence, fratricide ad exile was found to be treasured still by Travellers.

This video shows them on Later with Jools Holland on May 18, 2012:

Fay Hield sang this ballad as Henry in 2012 on her CD with the Hurricane Party, Orfeo. She commented in her liner notes:

More commonly known as Edward, or in Scotland My Son David, this song is pretty unusual for being entirely developed through dialogue. It’s not a song I’ve been attracted to before, perhaps because of the lack of direct action. However, I wrote this version to fit a tune I’ve been humming which I felt needed a repetitive lyric to complement it. The tune is Mandad ei Comigo, from the Codax manuscripts of 13th century Spain. The longer I spent with the song, the deeper it began to affect me and what I could once switch off as tediously repetitive I now struggle to reach the end of without a catch in my throat. It’s intensely powerful to take the role of the mother and discover, during the course of a conversation, that you have lost your daughter, your unborn grandchild, and that there is no other choice than for your son to leave for an unknown destiny. Then, consider the twisted feelings of anguish she must be feeling towards all of these people as a result of their activities. An incredible song, essentially delivered through just one line of text: “It’s the blood of my sister dear, she would have my baby.”

Jeff Davis sang Edward in 2013 on his and Brian Peters’ CD of songs collected by Cecil Sharp in the Appalachian Mountains, Sharp’s Appalachian Harvest. Sharp collected this version from Jane Gentry of Hot Springs, North Carolina, on August 24, 1916.

Lyrics

Jeannie Robertson sings My Son David Nic Jones sings Edward
“O what’s the blood that’s on your sword,
My son David, O son David?
What’s the blood it’s on your sword?
Come promise, tell me true.”“O that’s the blood of my grey mair,
Hey lady mother, ho lady mother;
That’s the blood of my grey mair,
Because it widnae rule my me.”		 “What’s that blood all on your shirt?
Son, come tell to me.”
“Oh, that’s the blood of my own grey hound,
He wouldn’t run with me, with me,
He wouldn’t run with me.”
“O that blood it is owre clear,
My son David, O son David;
That blood it is owre clear,
Come promise, tell me true.”“O that’s the blood of my grey hound,
Hey lady mother, ho lady mother;
That’s the blood of my grey hound,
Because it widnae rule my me.”“O that blood it is owre clear,
My son David, O son David;
That blood it is owre clear,
Come promise, tell me true.”“O that’s the blood of my huntin’ haak,
Hey lady mother, ho lady mother;
That’s the blood of my huntin’ haak,
Because it widnae rule my me.”		 “Oh it’s too pale for your greyhound’s blood,
Son, come tell to me.”
“It is the blood of my own grey mare,
He wouldn’t hunt with me, with me,
He wouldn’t hunt with me.”
“O that blood it is owre clear,
My son David, O son David;
That blood it is owre clear,
Come promise, tell me true.”“O that’s the blood of my brother John,
Hey lady mother, ho lady mother;
That’s the blood of my brother John,
Because he drew his sword tae me.		 “Oh it’s too red for your grey mare’s blood,
Son, come tell to me.”
“Well, it’s the blood of me own dear brother,
He wouldn’t ride with me, with me,
He wouldn’t ride with me.”
“And what were you all quarrelling about?
Son, come tell to me.”
“Oh it’s all about a little holly bush
And it might have made a tree, a tree,
It might have made a tree.”
“I’m gaun awa’ in a bottomless boat,
In a bottomless boat, in a bottomless boat,
But I’m gaun awa’ in a bottomless boat,
And I’ll ne’er return again.”		 “And what will you do when your father comes to know?
Son, come tell to me.”
“Oh, I’ll set sail in a little sailing boat,
I’ll sail across the sea, the sea,
I’ll sail across the sea.”
“And what will you do with your pretty little wife?
Son, come tell to me.”
“Oh she’ll sail along in my little sailing boat,
She’ll sail along with me, with me,
She’ll sail along with me.”
“And what will you do with your eldest son?
Son, come tell to me.”
Oh I’ll leave him here for you to raise,
Rock all-upon your knee, your knee,
To rock all-upon your knee.”
“O whan will you come back again
My son David, O son David?
Whan will you come back again?
Come promise, tell me true.”“When the sun and the moon meets in yon glen,
Hey lady mother, ho lady mother;
When the sun and the moon meets in yon glen,
For I’ll return again.”		 “And when will you come back again?
Son, come tell to me.”
When the sun and the moon there on yonder hill,
I know that will never never be, never be,
Know that will never never be.”
Steeleye Span sing Edward Fay Hield sings Henry
“What’s that blood upon your sword, Edward?”
“’Tis the blood of my grey mare.”
“Your grey mare’s blood was never that red, Edward,
You’re telling lies, telling lies.”“What’s that blood upon your sword, Edward?”
“’Tis the blood of my greyhound.”
“Greyhound’s blood was never that red, Edward,
You’re telling lies, telling lies.”“What’s that blood upon your sword, Edward?”
“’Tis the blood of my great hawk.”
“Great hawk’s blood was never that red, Edward,
You’re telling lies.”

Chorus
And the sun will never shine, Edward,
And the moon has lost his light.
And the sun will never shine, Edward,
You’re telling lies, telling lies.

“What’s that blood upon your sword, Edward?”
“It is the blood of my brother.”
“Why did you kill your own brother, Edward?
You’re telling lies, telling lies.”

Chorus

What will you do, where will you go, Edward?
What will you do, how will you live?”
“I’ll sail away, I’ll sail away, Mother,
And you’ll never see more of me.”

“What of your wife, what of your son, Edward?
And what will you leave to your mother dear?”
“The curse of Hell to burn her with, Mother
But telling lies, telling lies.”

Chorus

 “Oh what is the blood on your shirt sleeve?
Oh my son Henry, come tell unto me.”
“It’s the blood of my grey hound;
He would not run for me.”“Oh that’s not the blood of your greyhound,
Oh my son Henry, don’t lie unto me.
It would be a far redder blood,
This can never be.“Oh what is the blood on your shirt sleeve?
Oh my son Henry, come tell unto me.”
“It’s the blood of my grey mare;
She would not ride for me.”“Oh that’s not the blood of your grey mare,
Oh my son Henry, don’t lie unto me.
It’d be a far darker red,
This can never be.“Oh what is the blood on your shirt sleeve?
Oh my son Henry, come tell unto me.”
“It’s the blood of my goshawk;
He would not hunt for me.”“Oh that’s not the blood of your goshawk,
Oh my son Henry, don’t lie unto me.
It’d be a far thicker blood,
This can never be.“Oh what is the blood on your shirt sleeve?
Oh my son Henry, come tell unto me.”
“It’s the blood of my sister dear;
She would have my baby.“Oh set me a boat on the ocean,
Set it to sail over all the seven seas.
I must die for the love of
My sister and me.”
Paddy Tunney sings What Put the Blood?
“Where have you been the whole day long?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I was fishing and fowling the whole day long
All through mother’s treachery, all through mother’s treachery.”“What put the blood on your right shoulder?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“’Twas the killing of a hare, that I killed today,
That I killed right manfully, that I killed right manfully.”“The blood of the old hare it could never be so red.
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“’Twas the killing of a boy, that I killed today,
That I killed most manfully, that I killed most manfully.”“What came between yourself and the boy?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“It was mostly the cutting of a rod
That would never come a tree, that would never come a tree.”“What are you going to do when your daddy finds out?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I will put my foot on board a ship
And sail to a foreign country, and sail to a foreign country.”“What are you going to do with your lovely young wife?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“She can put her foot on board of a ship
And sail e’er after me, and sail e’er after me.”“What are you going to do with your two fine young babes?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I’ll give one to my father and the other to my mother
For to bear them company, for to bear them company.”“What are you going to do with your two fine racehorses?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I will take the bridles off their necks
For they’ll run for more for me, they’ll run for more for me.”“What are you going to do with your two fine greyhounds?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I will take the leads all off their necks
For they’ll run for more for me, they’ll run for more for me.”“What are you going to do with your houses and your lands?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I will lay them bare to the birds on the air
For there is no more welcome there for me, there’s no more welcome there for me.”

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“When the eyes rest on the soul…that’s Fitzy…”

Lenny Megliola

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The Queer Folk

by | April 18, 2016 | Journal, Songs | 0 Comments

True to my words of earlier this week, I finished this song last night, and at the time, I liked it--but in the clear light of day, too much of it seems forced, especially the rhymes. But that is part of the process. I think I am almost there. Let me get my saw and...
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Going Google?

by | July 1, 2014 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

When you find yourself in the majority, it's time to join the minority ~Mark Twain I have to admit, Google is pretty impressive. The whole set of features that are offered to the public and to educators for free is pretty astounding: email, document creation and...
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You Are All a Bunch of Punks

by | February 3, 2014 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

Poetry without form is like tennis without a net. ~Robert Frost       Free verse poetry is not, as many assume, poetry without rules. It is a measured and thoughtful crafting of an idea into lines, spaces, and breaks intentionally and willfully crafted to heighten and...
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The Enigma

by | August 11, 2014 | Journal, Poetry | 0 Comments

Black Pond is not as deepas it is dark, dammedsome century agobetween ledges of granite and an outcropping of leaning fir, huckleberry, and white pine. For years I have paddled and trolled;swam, fished, sailed and sometimessimply tread water in the night trying to...
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Moby Dick: Chapters 42-51

by | March 1, 2015 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

A literary reflection to my students... The lowering for whales, the appearance of Fedallah's crew, the vivid descriptions of the first chase in a sudden and unrelenting gale, the fatalistic joy of resigning oneself to fate, the awesome poetic intensity of Melville's...
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A New Beginning

by | November 10, 2013 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

 I guess if there is any constant in my life, it is new beginnings.  This blog--and this website--is another new beginning starting here late on a cold night on my back porch. I've been keeping a blog (in fact several blogs) since the first blogs made their way on to...
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Quit Your Whining

by | January 31, 2014 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

Anything worth succeeding in is worth failing in~Ben Franklin     "Quit your whining and complaining" is probably a clause that can easily be translated into every language in every culture on earth, for, from what I know and have seen in the world, bitching about...
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Know Thyself…

by | September 29, 2017 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

Writing a Metacognition Know Thyself… Explore, Assess, Reflect & Rethink If we don’t learn from what we do, we learn little of real value. If we don’t make the time to explore, reflect and rethink our ways of doing things we will never grow, evolve and reach our...
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Concord

by | July 14, 2014 | Poetry, Raccoon | 0 Comments

The people, the music filledness of rush hour traffic skirting puddles work crews packing in laughswearingmudyellowed slickers lighting candle bombs. My sadness the euphoric detachment. I love this town. It breathes me.
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On Writing with Rubrics

by | May 2, 2014 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

The only way out is through... Damn! Another long post... For better and worse--and through thick and thin--I keep piling on rubric after rubric to help guide the content, flow, and direction of my students' writing pieces.  The greater irony is that I never set out...
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Kampuchea

by | July 14, 2014 | Poetry, Raccoon | 0 Comments

I stutter for normality across the river from black men fishing for kibbers and horned pout. Barefoot children rounded bellies curled navels stalk the turtle sunning on a log. lonely in the field grass lonely on the curbstones I stutter for normality. Not a mother...
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Ready. Set. Go.

by | April 7, 2014 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

Who forgets to rinse his hair? Me, I guess, for that was the start of my day. I smelled something like coconut oil on my way to school, and then I realized, dang, my hair is still pretty wet. Wet with hair conditioner. And then I get sot school all coconutty smelling...
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Out of the Forge: April 6, 2017

by | April 11, 2017 | Journal, Out of the Forge | 0 Comments

Some nights I feel like I am singing in a mall. Tonight--in a fun way--it felt a bit like I walked into the Natick mall at Christmas time and pulled out my guitar in front of the Apple store and started to play, but like every night down at the inn it evolved into a...
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Garden Woman

by | August 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs | 0 Comments

I woke today and had my tea
and at the window spent the morning:
the same scene I’ve seen so many times
is each day freshly born;
from the ground I turn each spring and fall
come the flowers sweetly blooming;
you disappear among the weeds—
you are the garden woman.

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What Christmas Is

by | December 25, 2015 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

  I am not sure what Christmas really is anymore. I am almost afraid to think of what Christians are going through in the lands of the original Christian faith. By dint of place and time, I grew up in the Catholic faith, and try as I might, I can’t ever escape the...
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A Hard Sell

by | November 13, 2013 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

     As a teacher, I am tired of the word blog, probably because the word “blogging” is incredibly limiting and myopic, especially for someone whose teaching is centered around an online curriculum with blogs front and center on my academic table. I sat through a...
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Weeds

by | August 8, 2014 | Journal, Poetry | 0 Comments

  Somewhere locked in this choke of weeds spread like a mangy carpet is the hardened vine of Pipo’s Concord Grape he planted in an eager spring three years ago. Gasping for air and sun and water perhaps it has found some way to hide from my flailing hoe and the...
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Another Wednesday

by | April 20, 2016 | Journal | 0 Comments

        It is a good night for meatballs. The same meal we have cooked every Wednesday night for thirteen years and counting. Tonight is a beautiful and warm night of vacation week, so more than likely we will have a big crowd joining us—but we never know who. The...
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Somewhere North of Bangor

by | August 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs | 0 Comments

Somewhere north of Bangor
on the run from Tennessee.
Lost in back scrub paper land
in section TR-3.
It’s hit him he’s an outlaw
a Georgia cracker’s son,
who killed a man in Nashville
with his daddies favorite gun.
It’s hit him with the loneliness
of wondering where you are
on a long ago railway
stretched between two stars.

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Ghetto of Your Eye

by | August 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs | 0 Comments

I wrote this song back in the winter of 1989, in the dining car of a steam driven train, somewhere along the Trans-Siberian railway, after meeting a group of Russian soldiers fresh from battle in Afghanistan—that poor country that has been a battleground for way too long.

We stare together hours the snow whipped Russian plain—
rolling in the ghetto of your eye.
We share a quart of vodka
and some cold meat on the train—
you know too much to even wonder why;
I see it in the ghetto of your eye.

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When the same thing happens again

by | October 7, 2017 | Crows and Swallows, Journal, Poetry | 0 Comments

I wonder if God is testing me, giving Me some affable warning Or, perhaps, a more Stern rebuke, replaying A foolish mistake, Rehashing and reminding me Of a harsher possibility. It is only a small 10 mm wrench tightening A loose bolt on the throttle body, slipping...
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Marriage & Magnanimity

by | September 6, 2015 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

If we want to have the freedom to marry whom we want to marry, why is it so important that the state (government) recognise that marriage? Is it simply the expediency of dispensing the entitlements of a marriage certificate: tax benefits, employment benefits, or the...
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Canobie lake

by | June 3, 2014 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

Going to Canobie Lake is always the turning point of the year for me. It is like some primal signal that It is time to turn away from the school year and towards the future.  Obviously, it is my hope that you learned some useful skills this year, but, more...
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Dallas: 7/7/2016

by | July 8, 2016 | Journal | 0 Comments

I woke up this morning almost too fearful to read the news. I stayed up late into the night just watching for the breaking stories and updates. Now, I am simplyconfused about how to act. I feel incredibly small and pointless, unsure of where I stand and how to move...
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The Tide

by | August 31, 2014 | Poetry | 0 Comments

They are building a world and the plastic is fading: Margaret and Eddie's buckets are split, pouring out the warm Atlantic as they race along the tidal flat, filling pools connected by frantically dug canals. Tommy squats naked and screams in guttural joy at the...
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Goathouse

by | May 23, 2014 | Poetry, Raccoon | 0 Comments

Goat house In reaching for the scythe I’m reminded of the whetstone and the few quick strokes by which it was tested-- the hardness of hot August; the burning of ticks off dog backs. It’s winter now in this garage made barn, and the animals seem only curious that I’d...
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If you don’t stand, you cower…

by | July 19, 2019 | Journal | 0 Comments

     Maybe it is time to be less forgiving. I have rarely agreed with our president, but I held on to the shreds of truth that shore up his arguments: we can’t welcome every immigrant who makes it to our border; we cannot bow to the audacity of corrupt governments in...
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The Mystery in the Cradle

by | December 25, 2013 | Journal | 0 Comments

This picture is from Christmas eleven years ago when Tommy was only two weeks old, and now all of them—and Gio and Pipo--are playing charades or some such game in the dining room, shouting and laughing at each other's miscues and fortifying another enduring memory...
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The Farmer, The Weaver & the Space Traveler

by | June 26, 2020 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

     Words matter. Words carefully crafted and artfully expressed  matter infinitely more. There is something compelling in a turn of phrase well-timed, arresting image juxtaposed on arresting images; broad ideas distilled into clear, lucid singular thought. For the...
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Calvary

by | August 23, 2014 | Out of the Forge, Songs | 0 Comments

It seems like it ain’t been a long time,
But I’m damn pleased your coming by again.
It’s been a while since we sat down and rambled
About this and that and why and who and then
You said that you had to get a move on,
Move on and leave a space behind.
So I spent a while hitting all those old roads:
Old friends and kicking down the wine.

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Trawler

by | August 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs | 0 Comments

Leave the fog stillness
of a cold harbor town;
cup our hands
in the warm diesel sound—
leave while the children
are calmed in their dreams
by light buoys calling:
“Don’t play around me.”

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To a teacher

by | November 14, 2019 | Journal, Poetry | 0 Comments

This shift from fall to winterIs the cruelest month:Long days and nightsIn a blather of responsibility’s I hoist from a murky holeAnd sort and siftOn a messy desk. I pity my students who trembleMy red pen of vengeance;Who wait with fetid thoughtsFreighted by what they...
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Thanksgiving

by | November 28, 2013 | Journal, Poetry | 0 Comments

I am surprised sometimes by the suddenness of November: beauty abruptly shed to a common nakedness— grasses deadened by hoarfrost, persistent memories of people I’ve lost. It is left to those of us dressed in the hard barky skin of experience to insist on a decorum...
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Shane

by | August 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs | 0 Comments

It’s been too long feeling sorry for myself.
It’s been too long with my life up on the shelf.
Sometimes wish that I was Shane—
shoot Jack Palance, and disappear again;
don’t have no one
don’t want no one
don’t miss no one:
living lonely with a saddle and a gun.

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No Dad To Come Home To

by | August 12, 2014 | Dawghouse, Songs | 0 Comments

Rain’s falling outside of Boston—
Thank God I’m not working tonight.
I’ve got six of my own,
And a stepdaughter at home,
And a momma keeping things right.
I wonder if they’re at the table
With their puzzles, their papers and pens?
When I get off the highway
And pull in that driveway,
Will they run to the window again?

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Get Back in the Game

by | January 16, 2022 | Journal | 0 Comments

Out on the back porch, not as cold as earlier today, waiting for the storm to arrive in a few hours--curious if I will get that call at 2:00 AM to head out and plow the Concord streets. Most of me hopes for the call; another side of me wants a day stuck at home,...
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Reflecting on Literature

by | March 27, 2017 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

I am constantly asking my students (and myself) to reflect on the literature they, and I, read. As I have grown older—and not necessarily wiser—I find myself only reading literature that I am sure will prod me out of my intellectual and emotional torpor, like a lizard...
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Supermoon

by | August 10, 2014 | Journal, Poetry | 0 Comments

Last night the August supermoon reminded me of the fickleness of time and how substance becomes shadow and memories begin to etch themselves immutably into the hardness of what is already lost.
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There is in an easiness

by | June 8, 2018 | Journal | 0 Comments

When I begin to think of myself. My girded shell squeezing Oysters in a jar; My oily viscera Jammed and joggled Into impossible places. My pancreas Is never where it should be; My esophagus cut cleanly Swirls in a diaspora. My tongue is a trapped In a tangle of...
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Eighteen Years

by | August 24, 2014 | Journal, Poetry | 0 Comments

At midnight I hear the cuckoo clock chiming from it’s perch in a cluttered kitchen locked in cadence with the tower bell gonging this old mill town at midnight to a deeper sleep, like a call to prayer reminding me that this new day, starting in the dark of a hallowed...
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