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Washington Assumes Command at Cambridge
from Legends of Liberty, Volume 3
Devoted Billy Lee, a stalking fox,
Observed his master’s swaying ponytail.
The ribbon coming loose, he stopped to fix
It, leaning sideways on the narrow trail
As Washington, colossal, sat astraddle.
On reaching Cambridge to assume command,
This marble column shifted in the saddle:
A scattered camp? What’s this unruly band?
His horse backed up—latrines submerged the ground.
Lee read his master’s roaming eyes, spinning them round.
Dirty, filthy. Lee: “War-weary bums.”
Panties, young moms?—“Females in the rear—
Purty, healthy.”—Whores! And they abut
Shanties, wigwams? —“There’s a nice caboose.”
Brick and brush?—“Low building costs—rock bottom!”
Board and sailcloth?—“Hardy bunch of squatters—
Thick and flush,” said Lee (of sunburned haunches
Hoarding soupbroth, hunching over pots).
—“Asses!” Lee: Is master…cursing? “Blaggards,”
Swore Washington (low, posh). “This army’s class is backwards!”
One bumpkin, bumping someone’s bum (“Gee—hey!”)
Spilled rum. “Ah, bummer.” So, to make them pay,
This rifleman that hailed from VA
Snatched up some flip that anglers from MA
Had brewed and took a sip. “That’s my jar, guy!”
An heirloom beer mug, dating from B.C.,
Upturned its B.A.C. on an RI
Cobbler, whose shoes hit coopers from DE,
Who threw their kegs of grog. States of initial
Drunken fellowship are often superficial.
A thousand brawlers soon were joining in.
Washington gritted teeth and clenched his jaw.
Cheek muscles rippled under icy skin
As patience, wearing thin, began to thaw.
Just like a deer, he sprang from off his steed
And rushed into the thickest of the fighting,
Seizing two brawny farmers where they stood—
An iron grip upon their throats. (No biting.)
Shaking, he held them both apart: “ENOUGH!”
The fists all froze, mid-face—raw, muddy, mad, and rough.
Never among the men of long ago—
Among those sons of Abraham, so lean
And strong, from which the many nations flow—
Had such a man as Washington been seen.
His midnight tricorne shaded heads with fleas.
His sky-blues pierced each window-gazer caked
With the fog of anger, hunger, and disease—
A general that no one could mistake
Among ten thousand souls. Behold the man.
In all directions, then, the soldiers turned and ran.
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Andrew Benson Brown has had poems and reviews published in a few journals. His epic-in-progress, Legends of Liberty, will chronicle the major events of the American Revolution if he lives to complete it. Though he writes history articles for American Essence magazine, he lists his primary occupation on official forms as ‘poet.’ He is, in other words, a vagabond.
One bumpkin, bumping someone’s bum (“Gee—hey!”) Spilled rum. “Ah, bummer.”
A classic Bensonian line!
As an amateurish poet, I write in couplets, and as a coupleteer, I always love the power couplets you do at the end of stanzas.
Among ten thousand souls. Behold the man.
In all directions, then, the soldiers turned and ran.
I hope everyone supports you by purchasing the book.
Thanks Michael. May border on over-alliterating there with that first line. Can’t help myself at times.
Seldom, if ever, in the history of classical poetry has anyone attained such vivid detail encased in admirably incomparable words and matchless phrases
that stimulate the emotions of the readers.
Too kind as always, Roy.
Very unusual and entertaining uses of slang, in the second verse, and state abbreviations in the third, are only two of the ways you have made me smile while reading this amusingly-told tale!
Glad to bring pleasure, Cythia. That’s what good literature should do.
Thanks for offering this whole chapter on Washington at once, Andrew. The end of it appears to be an inauspicious assumption of command. Ordinarily a parade, but in this case a rout and disordered retreat. Perhaps the soldiers (whom we hope will acquire military discipline from their general) did not understand who was in charge. I must ask you what you imagine in the sentence, “His midnight tricorne shaded heads with fleas.” To give Washington only one head, I would end the previous line with a comma, and change this one to “His midnight tricorne-shaded head with fleas.” However, this has its own problems, and I may be missing something. Jokes, obvious and not, crowd thick and fast in this passage.
Was trying to convey that Washington’s height, towering over other as he did, casts other heads into shade. But can see how it’s confusing. Rewrote it as “His height eclipsed each sunburned head with ease.” Hope that’s clearer. Thanks for being perceptive about flaws, as always. Your comments make this thing better than it otherwise would be.
As usual, more linguistic genius from ABB: there is with you, Andrew, a constant sense of your being profoundly in ‘touch with language’, if one may express it that way. Sounds have meanings and nuances, sometimes almost imperceptibly so, but you pick them up and exploit them. For example, ‘As Washington, colossal, sat astraddle.’ – the colossal/astraddle pairing elevates as it simultaneously deflates; and I love your easy, almost throw-away aphorisms: ‘States of initial
Drunken fellowship are often superficial.’ The rhyming with you is so Byronic! Great stuff.
Thanks James. Was thinking about that line from Shakespeare about how Caesar “bestrides the narrow world.” Bestriding a horse is less grandiose, but fits my tone.
Andrew, one of the tools in your toolbox is the poetic kaleidoscope, which is very much on display in this passage — a rush of images snatches of dialogue, allusions that rush past demanding a second look. I mean this as a compliment because it’s one of the things about your poetry that makes it engaging, entertaining and memorable.
Your work is naturally cinematic and, as I’ think I’ve mentioned before, reminds me of the films of Baz Luhrman (especially his kaleidoscopic imagery in Moulin Rouge.) Your poetry is not derivative of his films, and yet the comparison seems apt to me. What I do note is your attention to visual detail both in the language of the poem and in your use of actual pictures and artwork to attend the poetry as seen in your Flower of Destiny excerpt that Evan posted beneath the featured poem. This is only the tip of the iceberg because your actual books are infused with such art. William Blake did this. He was as much artist as poet and his books were thick with his paintings and engravings. Your poetry, like his, is immersive in that respect. It also explains much of your style when you create a video. I know of no other contemporary poet who does what you do. I think Blake may be one of your poetic progenitors. I would very much like to go back and look at his “America – A Prophecy” since he also tackled the American Revolution, albeit as a nearly contemporaneous account rather than through the prism of 250 years. I recall his work to be dramatically different from yours, but it would still be fun to see how two different poets cover that watershed event in history.
Special mentions for your use of language both subtle and innovative. Your oblique references to Washington (colossal, marble column) give us the sense of the larger than life member of an ancient pantheon. Your use of the U.S. postal abbreviations for some of the states is funny and deliberately anachronistic as is language like “bummer.” Your deliberate use of anachronisms (like Lurhmann’s) really does go for broke by invoking everything old and mixing it up with contemporary pop culture. One special call-out for the phrasing of “behold the man” which we may well know better in Latin as “ecce homo” and which is forever tied to Pilate’s presentation of the scourged Christ. And with this allusion your apotheosis of Washington seems complete.
Much appreciated Brian. Growing up in the age of film, I do tend to think cinematically, and I imagine I’m not all that different from many others. I realize that when I think about it in my head I visualize it like a movie scene. One difference between me and Blake is, though his multimedia work is inspirational, I am not actually a good visual artist and have to steal the art of others. I don’t intend to have a postmodern style in the way I manipulate images—not trying to deconstruct anything—but I realize it may come off that way sometimes. The common denominator is that the postmodern artists are about on par with my own skill level in that medium. I’ve looked at Blake’s “America” recently at your behest, and there may be something to pillage there.