Friday marked the official turning of the seasons; the Autumnal Equinox. Here in Savannah, we had our few weeks of fall weather already and now the rains have brought with them the oppressive humidity of summer once again. But the school year is well under way and students (from the art college, private schools, and public schools) swarm the streets in the afternoons and here and there a brown or red leaf may be spotted. I have found it to be a relief to switch to fall music, as I realize that I am more than ready to put summer into the 'past, but not forgotten' category and move on with my new life.
So I put away the County-Bluegrass combinations of a care-free summer, and the Pop and the Hip-Hop of the summer camp dances and bring out the Celtic and Folk songs which, whether they be jigs and reels or ballads, always speak to me of a slightly more melancholic season. These are songs to be sung around the fire or tunes to which we dance to keep warm, to keep the summer sparks alive against the coming cold, to celebrate the harvest. This is the season where we sing wakes for those departing to new lands in hopes of a better harvest. I bring out the Alternative/Rock/Metal songs, too, the songs that are angry or resigned or regretful. It is the season for Feet Foxes, Mumford & Sons, and Simon & Garfunkel, OneRepublic, Coldplay, Flogging Molly, Korpiklaani, and a selection from the Decemberists (despite their name, they actually cover most seasons). It is a transitional season, so there are any number of overlaps from summer and some anticipation of winter, too.
My own life is still in transition as well. The hunt for a 'real' job continues and the bills pay no mind to whether or not I have one. I keep busy with creation; poetry and occasionally some art. I hunt for cicadas and other treasures from nature. I explore. I read everything I can get from the library. I send out poetic submissions in the hope that someone else will like them enough to put in print. An etsy site with black and white photographs and a few other art pieces for sale will shortly be online and operational. I write letters. I put in probably far more time researching my persona for the Society for Creative Anachronism than is healthy, even for a nerd. I cook delicious dinners and hang out with my roommates. I love the cats. And, in spite of all this, some days it is hard to get up and be productive. Some days I spend almost exclusively on the job hunt and this drains me. As an artist/poet, I must embrace rejection, but as an educated, perfectly capable adult I am sometimes brought low by the rejection of the job market. The rains and thunderstorms that have finally broken the drought revive me as they revive the plants, but the fact remains that rain-dancing is not a lucrative occupation.
From a class in Medieval and Renaissance Drama that I took in Ireland I recall the argument that all literature can be categorized under one of four categories: comedy, romance, tragedy, and satire. Each of these can be correlated to a season: spring with comedy, summer with romance, fall with tragedy, and winter with satire. It certainly feels to me as though we are moving from summer romance to fall tragedy. Summer was idyllic, hopeful, full of youthful idealism. Fall pulls down the leaves that shaded us from reality and we remember the frailty of the human condition. Reality sets in, we fight against it. Sometimes with hope, sometimes without. Even if the ending is success, there were losses along the way. If we get to winter and the fall has been too hard, we will turn to satire to deal with it until spring comes again.
Here are two poems to help us remember what it means to move from Romance to Tragedy. This first one (an English ballad) very nicely upholds that untenable romantic ideal, while the second (a Scottish ballad from about the same time period) reminds us that while reality is often tragic, we will survive by moving on and submitting to the cycle of nature.
The Three Ravens
1 There were three ravens sat on a tree, *
So I put away the County-Bluegrass combinations of a care-free summer, and the Pop and the Hip-Hop of the summer camp dances and bring out the Celtic and Folk songs which, whether they be jigs and reels or ballads, always speak to me of a slightly more melancholic season. These are songs to be sung around the fire or tunes to which we dance to keep warm, to keep the summer sparks alive against the coming cold, to celebrate the harvest. This is the season where we sing wakes for those departing to new lands in hopes of a better harvest. I bring out the Alternative/Rock/Metal songs, too, the songs that are angry or resigned or regretful. It is the season for Feet Foxes, Mumford & Sons, and Simon & Garfunkel, OneRepublic, Coldplay, Flogging Molly, Korpiklaani, and a selection from the Decemberists (despite their name, they actually cover most seasons). It is a transitional season, so there are any number of overlaps from summer and some anticipation of winter, too.
My own life is still in transition as well. The hunt for a 'real' job continues and the bills pay no mind to whether or not I have one. I keep busy with creation; poetry and occasionally some art. I hunt for cicadas and other treasures from nature. I explore. I read everything I can get from the library. I send out poetic submissions in the hope that someone else will like them enough to put in print. An etsy site with black and white photographs and a few other art pieces for sale will shortly be online and operational. I write letters. I put in probably far more time researching my persona for the Society for Creative Anachronism than is healthy, even for a nerd. I cook delicious dinners and hang out with my roommates. I love the cats. And, in spite of all this, some days it is hard to get up and be productive. Some days I spend almost exclusively on the job hunt and this drains me. As an artist/poet, I must embrace rejection, but as an educated, perfectly capable adult I am sometimes brought low by the rejection of the job market. The rains and thunderstorms that have finally broken the drought revive me as they revive the plants, but the fact remains that rain-dancing is not a lucrative occupation.
From a class in Medieval and Renaissance Drama that I took in Ireland I recall the argument that all literature can be categorized under one of four categories: comedy, romance, tragedy, and satire. Each of these can be correlated to a season: spring with comedy, summer with romance, fall with tragedy, and winter with satire. It certainly feels to me as though we are moving from summer romance to fall tragedy. Summer was idyllic, hopeful, full of youthful idealism. Fall pulls down the leaves that shaded us from reality and we remember the frailty of the human condition. Reality sets in, we fight against it. Sometimes with hope, sometimes without. Even if the ending is success, there were losses along the way. If we get to winter and the fall has been too hard, we will turn to satire to deal with it until spring comes again.
Here are two poems to help us remember what it means to move from Romance to Tragedy. This first one (an English ballad) very nicely upholds that untenable romantic ideal, while the second (a Scottish ballad from about the same time period) reminds us that while reality is often tragic, we will survive by moving on and submitting to the cycle of nature.
The Three Ravens
1 There were three ravens sat on a tree, *
They were as black as they might be.
The one of them said to his mate,
'Where shall we our breakefast take?'
5 'Downe in yonder greene field,
There lies a knight slain under his shield.
'His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
So well they can their master keepe.
'His haukes they flie so eagerly,
10 There's no fowle dare come him nie.'
Downe there comes a fallow doe, *
As great with yong as she might goe.
She lift up his bloudy hed,
And kist his wounds that were so red.
15 She got him up upon her backe,
And carried him to earthen lake. *
She buried him before the prime, *
She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.
God send every gentleman,
20 Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.
*Notes
20 Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.
*Notes
1] This ballad was first printed in Ravenscroft's Melismata,
a song-book of 1611, and variant versions were recorded as late as the
19th century. It is the only English ballad in this collection.
The ballad has a refrain, "Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe", etc. alternating with the lines.
11] a fallow doe. The knight's lady is meant.
16] lack. Pit.
17] prime. The first hour of the day.
20] leman. Sweetheart.
The ballad has a refrain, "Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe", etc. alternating with the lines.
11] a fallow doe. The knight's lady is meant.
16] lack. Pit.
17] prime. The first hour of the day.
20] leman. Sweetheart.
The Twa Corbies
1 As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies makin a mane; *
The tane unto the ither say, *
"Whar sall we gang and dine the-day?"
5 "In ahint yon auld fail dyke, *
I wot there lies a new slain knight; *
And nane do ken that he lies there, *
But his hawk, his hound an his lady fair."
"His hound is tae the huntin gane,
10 His hawk tae fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's tain anither mate,
So we may mak oor dinner swate." *
"Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane;
Oer his white banes, whan they are bare,
20 The wind sall blaw for evermair."
*Notes
2] twa corbies makin a mane. Two crow making a moan. (Many of the 'a's in this Scottish dialect should be read as modern English 'o's; e.g. 'alane' = 'alone', 'nane' = 'none', 'gane' = 'gone', 'hame' = home', etc. Pronouncing the words aloud often helps in figuring out what they are meant to be in modern English [though it does help even more if you can then interpret Scottish accents].)
3] tane. One.
5] In ahint yon auld fail dyke. In behind that old turf wall.
6] wot. Sense.
7] ken. Know.
12] swate. Sweet.
13] hause-bane. Neck-bone.
14] een. Eyes.
16] theek. Thatch.
1 As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies makin a mane; *
The tane unto the ither say, *
"Whar sall we gang and dine the-day?"
5 "In ahint yon auld fail dyke, *
I wot there lies a new slain knight; *
And nane do ken that he lies there, *
But his hawk, his hound an his lady fair."
"His hound is tae the huntin gane,
10 His hawk tae fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's tain anither mate,
So we may mak oor dinner swate." *
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, *
And I'll pike oot his bonny blue een; *
15 Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
We'll theek oor nest whan it grows bare." *
15 Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
We'll theek oor nest whan it grows bare." *
"Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane;
Oer his white banes, whan they are bare,
20 The wind sall blaw for evermair."
*Notes
2] twa corbies makin a mane. Two crow making a moan. (Many of the 'a's in this Scottish dialect should be read as modern English 'o's; e.g. 'alane' = 'alone', 'nane' = 'none', 'gane' = 'gone', 'hame' = home', etc. Pronouncing the words aloud often helps in figuring out what they are meant to be in modern English [though it does help even more if you can then interpret Scottish accents].)
3] tane. One.
5] In ahint yon auld fail dyke. In behind that old turf wall.
6] wot. Sense.
7] ken. Know.
12] swate. Sweet.
13] hause-bane. Neck-bone.
14] een. Eyes.
16] theek. Thatch.
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