Poems Recited by Job Conger in his presentation of "The Poet Speaks" Vachel Lindsay Home State Historic Site 603 S. Fifth Street, Springfield, Illinois 2:15 p.m. November 10, 2007

Job Conger, Springfield poet/songwriter and creator of "Vachel Lindsay: The Poet Speaks" a one-man presentation of the life and poems of you know whom. -- Thanks to volunteer Darren who took this fine picture.

Newly added to this page: pictures from the November 10 Birthday Party observance at the site, interspersed between poems.
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1. As the day began, the special tent erected in the back yard, three commemorative cakes, mixed nuts, coffee and hot mulled cider were ready for the visitors a plenty who came to enjoy the day.

2. Closeup of the cake at 11:10 am.

3. Upstairs in Vachel's bedroom, the world was quiet and still.

4. First to share with visitors was the Vachel Lindsay Repertory Group.

                                                         Part One -- Poems by Vachel Lindsay


The Dream of All the Springfield Writers

I'll haunt this town though gone the maids and men
The darling few, my friends and loves today.
My ghost returns, bearing a great sword-pen
While far-off children of their children play.

That pen will drip with moonlight and with fire.
I'll write upon the church doors and the walls
And reading there, young hearts shall leap the higher
Though drunk already with their own love-calls.

Still led of love and arm in arm, strange gold
Shall find in tracing the far-speeding track
The dauntless war-cries that my sword-pen bold
Shall carve on terraces and tree trunks black.

On tree trunks black beneath the blossoms white,
Just as the phosphorent merman bound for home
Jewels his fire-path in tides at night
While scurrying sea babes follow through the foam

And in December, when the leaves are dead
And the first snow has carpeted the street
And young cheeks flush a healthful Christmas red
And young eye glisten with youth's fervor sweet,

My pen shall cut in winter's snowy floor
Cries that in channeled glory leap and shine:
My Village Gospel living evermore
Amid rejoicing, loyal friends of mine.


     This is one of many favorite regularly metered poems that invites a musical treatment. The melody I created is a moderate "Take Me Home Country Roads" tempo with no departure from Vachel's words. A "merman" is a male mermaid (surprise) and the "phosphorent" refers to the fact that at sea, ships cruising along (and I suppose mermen and mermaids as well) stir up schools of marine animals in their wake, similar to lightning bugs. During World War I and after, observers in aircraft patrolling the ocean could often spot the wake of blacked out friendly and enemy ships by first seeing the phosphorent trails of the wakes and following them forward to find the vessels in transit. "My Village Gospel" refers to Vachel's "Gospel according to Vachel message" to all who lived in small towns and villages, exhorting citizens to be happy where they are and to make their villages shine like "a celestial gem" as he said in his poem The Illinois Village. That poem, not shared here, along with The Proud Farmer, also not shared here, and On the Building of Springfield, shared below were often recited in sequence as his Gospel of Beauty Triad.

5. The Rep Group read "The Santa-Fe Trail," "Bryan Bryan, Bryan, Bryan," "The Babbit Jamboree," and "On the Road to Nowhere."

6. After the reading Rep Group leader Lee Nickelson enjoyed cake and conversation with Darren, a Lindsay Home volunteer.

7. John Eggleston, the developer who has purchased the homes and the apartment building adjacent to the Lindsay Home was on hand and welcomed visitors to his restoration efforts. This view of the apartment building Doc Lindsay built on Governor Street just west of his home was taken from the second floor of the house under restoration just south of the Home at 603 S. Fifth Street.

8. Eggleston (left) chats with visitor "Bud" Bartlett.

Crickets on a Strike

The foolish queen of fairyland
From her milk-white throne on a lily-bell,
Gave command to her cricket-band
To play for her when the dew-drops fell.

But the cold dew spoiled their instruments
And they play for the foolish queen no more.
Instead, those sturdy malcontents
Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor.


     In his magficent three=volume series about Vachel, author Dennis Camp notes "Crickets" was one of Vachel's first poems, probably written in his high school years.  It's a fascinating view of the poet's early ability to story tell, concisely, with easy consistent meter and delightful irony. I have set the poem to music, but rarely sing it because it's almost two short a ditty to begin singing before it's time to stop. Anyone irritated by crickets in the kitchen or basement is certain to smile as the story is told.

9. Looking through an opening in the upstairs floor at a window and living room.

10. This view of members of the Rep Group was taken from an upstairs window next door.

11. The apartment building on Governor from what is surely a closed but drafty window under restoration.

12. This youg man was part of Lanphier High School teacher (retured) Deb Huffman's group which read several Lindsay poems dressed in early 20th century attire for the auspicious occasion.

Abraham Lincoln Walks At Midnight
(In Springfield, Illinois)

It is portentous and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town
A mourning figure walks and will not rest,
Near the old courthouse, pacing up and down.

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards
He lingers where his children used to play
Or through the market, on the well-worn stones
He stalks until the dawn stars burn away.

     When time permits, I like to explain what listeners may encounter as "speed bumps" or "Peeeeeeeeeeeoooooooooow moments" (a term going right over the audience's heads) BEFORE I recite the poem. This way they can better understand the poem; not be irritated by what they don't "get" and then have to ask about when they've about forgotten what it was anyway. "Portentous" is always first on my list with "' Walks." It means "a sign of bad moments ahead." I should have considered running over a black cat a portentous event for me -- and even worse for the cat -- as I hurredly drove to campus to take and fail my Algebra final exam. "Breath deep and start to see him pass" means to be startled, catching your breath as you see the visage of a great man walk past your door. The poem was written in 1914, as the Great War got rolling. Pro-war and anti-war friends urged Vachel to take a side. His refusal cost him some friends and respect. On the positive side, this is a terrific poem. "Dreadnaught" is a heavily armed battleship. "Scouring every main," means sweeping every ocean of enemy ships. "The League'" and "Worker's Earth" were popular organizations in his day. "His hill" refers to his tomb at the top of a hill at Oak Ridge Cemetery.

13. Another Lanphier student sharing Vachel. The bright sunlight streaming in through the west window did not permit the best pictures, but it's easy to see this young lady was having a good time center stage.

14. Over the years Deb Huffman has committed countless hours above and beyond the call of duty as a fine English teacher to lead students in creating a Lindsay web page and organizing a group of Lindsay poetry readers. The audiences have always enjoyed their presentations.

15. A posed picture following their reading.

16. And another.

The Flute of the Lonely
(To the tune of "Gaily the Troubadour")

Faintly, the ne’r do well
Breathed through his flute;
All the tired neighborfolk
Hearing were mute.
In their neat doorways sat
Labors all done,
Helpless, relaxed o’erwrought,
Evening begun.

     Though Vachel detested how some people set his poems to music, he found the tune and meter of the then-popular song "Gaily the Troubadour" fit this poem nicely. When I present this poem, I play the tune with a penny whistle (a simple metal and wood four-hole flute) whiich I purchased and learned how to play just so I could play it before singing this poem. Obviously, one can't play a flute and sing at the same time, so I play the tune first and sing it accapella.

17 Silhouette of a scholar: Findlay, Illinois citizen and Millikin University Professor Dan Guillory shared his research into the similarities of Vachel Lindsay's life and home to that of Abraham Lincoln

18 Dan noted how Abe and Vachel shared a vision of an ideal world of individuals owning small businesses and hiring just a few employees to assist in those businesses. Both men did not appreciate large industrial efforts. That said, Lincoln allowed himself to work for such corporate giants in his day as a lawyer before he became president.

19. Dan also noted Vachel had a vision of larger than life, great heroes, and he believes Vachel died because the rest of the world did not share his vision.

20. Poet John Knoepfle talks with Dan after a most illuminating presentation

On the Building of Springfield

Let not our town be large, remembering
Little Athens was the Muses’ home,
That Oxford rules the heart of London still,
That Florence gave the Renaissance to Rome.

Songs shall be sung by us in that good day,
Songs we have written, blood within the rhyme,
Sung as when Old England still was glad –
That purple, rich Elizabethan time.

Born but to struggle, squalid and alone,
Broken and wandering in their early years.
When will they make our dusty streets their home?
Within our attics, hide their sacred tears?

    Niniveh is an ancient great city of the Assyrian empire that was attacked by enemies in about 612 BC and raised to the ground, leaving no trace but skeletons of those murdered and left where they fell. "Phidian ornament" refers to the ancient Greek sculptor Phidius, 490 -- 430 B.C. "Songs we have written" is Vachel saying SPRINGFIELD, YOU must write these songs!  And I say with mixed pride and despair, I have written my share. I continue to write my share. Though Illinois is east of the Mississippi, Vachel believed the future of the USA was not with the old money, east of the Appalachian Mountains, but west of the Mighty Missisip. Vachel believed that "rich" and "free" seldom occupied the same plate. Travelling penniless on his early walks across country gave him extraordinary freedom, he would remember. Later, he played golf at the new Illini Country Club and enjoyed that as well. not that therre's anything wrong with it.

21. Knoepfle and Guillory.

22. John Winterbauer is one of several volunteers who welcome visitors to guided tours of the Lindsay home.

23. Vachel Lindsay created this interesting drawing of dancing potatoes and wrote a fine children's  poem to go along with it. Even grownups like the poem and illustration!

24. In the back yard, Dan Guillory chats with creative writer and host of "The Flyover Zone," Saturdays on WQNA, Hugh Moore.

The Potatoes' Dance
(A Poem Game)

              
               I

"Down cellar," said the cricket
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"Down callar," said the cricket,
"I saw a ball last night,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
Whose wings were pearly white.
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
Had smashed the cellar pane.
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,
And then of snow and rain.
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
And loved to hear it blow.
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady,
Who makes potatoes grow.
Our guest the Irish lady,
The tiny Irish lady
The tiny Irish lady,
Who makes potatoes grow.

"Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the band.
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand,
Kicking up the sand,
Kicking up the sand.
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand.
Their legs were old burnt matches
Their legs were old burnt matches
Their legs were old burnt matches
Their arms were just the same.
They jigged and whirled and scrambled,
Jigged and whirled and scrambled,
Jigged and whirled and scrambled,
In honor of the dame,
The witty Irish lady,
The saucy Irish lady
The laughing Irish lady
Who makes potatoes prance.

Gives

Potatoes

Eyes."

      In 2006 I visited the Vachel House when there was absolutely no event going on there, just for the fun of talking with site director Jennie Battles, and encountered her talking with visitors from Chicago. I was delighted (floored is perhaps, a more accurate description) when she asked me to recite a Vachel poem for the visitors. "What would you like to hear?," I asked. "How about 'The Potatoes' Dance?,'" she replied. I was mildly embarrassed. I had not memorized ascinating many "children's poems" by Vachel and I declined. When I learned the couple had agriculture in their family history, I gladly substituted Vachel's "The Proud Farmer." I then vowed to hearn "The Potatoes Dance" AND "The Moth and the Unicorn," AND "Do Not Stuff Them With Children's Songs" in the next week to build up that part of my repertoire. And I did. I honestly like the poem, and I hope you do too.
     The structure of this poem is particulary praiseworthy. The repetition and consistent rythm resemble moves in a minuet and faster dancing. When reciting this poem, Vachel often arranged to have dancers participate and encouged his fans to dance to it also. That's why he calls this fine creation "A Poem Game."
 

The Wizard In the Street

Useful are you. There stands the useless one
Who builds the Haunted Palace in the sun.
Good tailors, can you dress a doll for me
With silks that whisper of the sounding sea?
One moment, citizens, the weary tramp
Unveileth Psyche with the agate lamp.
Which one of you can spread a spotted cloak
And raise an unaccounted incense smoke
Until within the twilight of the day
Stand dark Legeia in her disarray,
Witchcraft and desperate passion in her breath
And battling will that conquers even death?

And now, the evening goes. No man has thrown
The weary dog his well-earned crust or bone
We grin and hie us home and go to sleep
Or feast like kings till midnight, drinking deep.
He drank alone for sorrow, and then slept,
And few there were that watched him, few that wept.
He found the gutter, lost to love and man.
Too slowly came the good Samaritan.

     Vachel read a lot of Edgar Allen Poe as he was growing up at 603 S. Fifth Street.  E.A.P. probably introduced the supernatural to VL's lexicon. He thought his progenitor had been under-appreciated in his day and attempted to set the record straight with this fine poem. As a writer, Poe stands head and shoulders above "The Prairie Troubadour" in the quantity and quality of writing generated.  Still, I have become a dedicated VL enthusiast, not because of how the doctor's son compared with the WORLD of literature, but how he compared with the citizens of Springfield, Illinois. When Vachel spoke and recited his poems at a meeting of The Cliff Dwellers' Club in Chicago, with British bard W.B. Yeats in attendance, the elder icon of the art was very impressed with the kid from Springfield and told the world about his very warm regard. So does it matter that Ezra Pound turned up his prominent nose at Vachel Lindsay? In 2007, I could not ask for a higher compliment than that!

29. In the airy and bright refreshment tent, children were encouraged to make their own pet turtle in rememberance of Vachel's terrific poem "The Little Turtle." The craft project took just a few munutes under the expert guidance of volunteer Marge Deffenbaugh (center) and other volunteers throughout the day.

30. A last look at a special cake. This tasty confection would be served Sunday to members of the Vachel Lindsay Association at their annual meeting.

31.  Lisa Hensley enjoys a piece of cake on a memorable afternoon.

32. A late afternoon view of Vachel Lindsay Home State Historic Site.

  Part Two -- Poems by Job Conger


Vachel House Possum

She was just a mother possum down at Vachel's House
You can tell because she's bigger than a rat or mouse,
And she doesn't want to bite you, even though she could.
She's just eeking out her mother possum livelihood.

Gardner Kathy saw some baby possums stroll inside
The shed where they store shears and sometimes pesticide.
It was hard to tell who was the more surprised, and so
Director Jennie said the possum family had to go.

First they had to reunite the kids with mom, not hard;
They just set them in the middle of the big back yard
And walked away, and when they looked again, the pups were gone.
All they saw were shrubs and flowers and a nice green lawn.

Then the challenge was to trap the family complete
Because the Lindsay house is more than a squatter possum retreat.
Hey, besides, they'll scare the tourists, and that isn't right.
Just imagine Vachel writing "Abe Possum Lurks at Midnight."

She was just a mother possum doing her own thing.
It's natural for gnarly marsupials to go wandering.
She'll be just as happy elsewhere as at Vachel's place,
And the tourists won't miss her pointy possum face.

The bard who wrote in youth of crickets on a strike,
Of heroes, presidents and fairies and the like
Never wrote a possum poem near as I can say,
But some possums knew of Vachel; now they've moved away.

      This poem is based on a true incident during another serendipitous visit to "the House." It is a song that swings like an up=beat blues ditty, and it has proven popular when shared in that affirmative environment.

 Vachel was a preacher.
Vachel was a preacher!
Vachel was a preacher, and I am too!

So when you hear the rocking ramble of a measured fable
Plain in truth and nourishing as manna sent from high,
Thank the man whose lasting poems come as easy to the ear
As the fishes came to Jesus for the multitudes nearby.
And consider how what was important then is still important now --
YES, despite the shouts of compromise from voices that are new,
And consider how we all should be good preachers for the cause.
You know Vachel was a preacher and you are too.


 Vachel was a preacher.
Vachel was a preacher!
Vachel was a preacher,
and 
you
are
too!

!This is the first poem/song I wrote about Vachel, and though written solely to introduce the man when I recite his poems and talk about his life, it has proven very popular away from the context of "Vachel performance." This is a snapshot I can pull out of my back pocket, along with my guitar, and show around without diving into the Lindsay lore very deep. It's a candy bar made for snacking, that relieves one of swallowing more than one truly desires. 

 BONUS  BONUS  BONUS 
                               my favorite Vachel Lindsay poem

     This poem, which I recite whenever my time on the program permits, is presented here as I arranged it for a 2005 appearance at a Poets & Writers Literary Forum (of Springfield, Illinois)  meeting. Even though my brief months as a member of the Vachel Lindsay Repertory Group had been a "sweet and sour pork" experience, on the whole, it was all nourishing, a heaven-sent preamble for what I would do after my time with them. Unlike Vachel, and unlike the Rep Group -- both of whom arranged multi-voice presentations of what I considered "Frank Sinatra solo songs," I decided to eat that crow (and gladly so) so I could engage the audience at the 2005 performance.

     Each volunteer was given a copy of this poem with each volunteer assigned to read aloud, the words of "their color." This saved the difficulty of bracketing or underlining parts for say, John, Diane, Sally, Jeff and Stuart, or whomever. A key to the arrangement follows. One person reads black copy; another reads red; another reads green, etc. Prior to the 2005 event,  I had not seen any poems arranged this way for sharing in public. It's not a practical format for publication on paper because it requires a color press . . . . expensive. With the Internet and the glory of web sites without editors (beyond my nose) it's a nifty way to arrange multi-participant readings. Everyone who generously consented to be a part of this experiment read their part very very well. It was a total delight to performers and to the audience!

     I'm sharing the arrangement here in the hope that YOU, unknown stranger, will copy it, make it better,  gather some friends, and do for others what we did at IMO'S Pizza on a special evening. And IF YOU DO, please write me and tell me about your experience. My email is posted at the bottom of this page.

KEY

LAVENDER -- NOT to be read aloud. These describe the speed or intonation intended for parts of the poem

black text, not unerlined -- person A _____________________________

black text underlined -- everyone as a chorus, in unison

RED -- person B     _____________________________________

GREEN -- person C   _____________________________________

BLUE  -- person D ________________________________________

BROWN -- person E    __________________________________________

ORANGE  -- person F  ______________________________


The Santa Fe Trail (A Humoresque)

(I asked the old man, "What is that bird that sings so well?" He answered, "That is the Rachel-Jane" " Hasn’t it another name – lark or thrush or the like?" "No. jus’ Rachel-Jane."

I.-- In Which a Racing Auto Comes From the East

This is the order of the music of the morning.
First from the far east comes but a crooning.
The crooning turns to a sunrise singing
Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn. (delicately)
Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn . . .

Hark to the pace-horn, chase-horn, race-horn, (great speed)
And the holy vail of the dawn has gone.
Swiftly the brazen car comes on.
It burns in the East as the sunrise burns
I see great flashes where the far trail turns.
Its eyes are lamps like the eyes of dragons.
I drinks gasoline from big red flagons.
Butting through the delicate mists of morning,

Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills . . .
Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn, (rolling bass)
Ho for the gay-horn, bark-horn, bay-horn. (deliberately)

II – In Which Many Autos Pass Westward

I want live things in their pride to remain. (even, deliberately)
I would not kill one grasshopper vain
Though he eats a hole in my shirt like a door,

The careering city
Whence each car came.
They tour from Memphis, Atlanta, Savannah,
Tallahassee and Texarkana,
They tour from St. Louis, Columbus, Manistee, (like a train caller
They tour from Peoria, Davenport, Kankakee, at an Amtrak station) - Job's edit
Cars from Concord, Niagara, Boston
Cars from Topeka, Emporia and Austin.
Cars from Chicago, Hannibal, Cairo
Cars from Alton, Oswego, Toledo,
Cars from Buffalo, Kokomo, Delphi,
Cars from Lodi, Carmi, Loami.

(Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.)
Here comes the plod-horn, hod-horn, sod-horn
Nevermore-to-roam horn, loam-horn, home-horn
(Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas)

Far away the Rachel-Jane (almost whispered)
Not defeated by the horns
Sings amid a hedge of thorns –

"Love and life,
Eternal youth,
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet,
Dew and glory,
Love and truth
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet."

While smoke-black freights on the double-tracked railroad
Driven as though by the foul fiend’s ox goad (picking up speed
Screaming to the west coast, screaming to the east, like
Carry off a harvest, bring back a feast, an accelerating train)
And harvesting machinery and harvest for the beast,
The hand cars whiz and rattle on the rails
The sunlight flashes on the tin dinner pails
And then in an instant, ye modern men,
Behold the procession, once again,
The United States goes by!

Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking (explosively!)
Listen to the wise-horn, desperate to advise-horn
Listen to the fast-horn, kill-horn, blast-horn . .
.
Far away the Rachel-Jane (almost whispered)
Not defeated by the horns,
Sings amid a hedge of thorns
"Love and life,
Eternal youth
Sweet, sweet sweet, sweet
Dew and glory, love and truth,
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet."

The mufflers open on a score of cars
With wonderful thunder
Crack, crack, crack, (explosively, all three)
Crack-crack, crack-crack
Crack, crack, crack.

Listen to the gold-horn. . . (slowing down
Old-horn . . . here like sighing
Cold-horn . . . almost to a stop)

And all of the tunes, till the night comes down
On hay-stack and ant-hill and wind-bitten down,
Then in the far west as in the beginning,
Dim in the distance, sweet in retreating,

Hark to the faint-horn, saint-horn, quaint-horn (just above
Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn . . . whisper)

They are hunting the dreams they understand: (like a
San Francisco and the brown sea sand. radio announcer)
My goal is the mystery the beggars win
I am caught in the web the night-winds spin.
The edge of the wheat-ridge speaks to me.
I talk with the leaves of the mulberry tree
And now I hear, as I sit all alone
In the dusk, by another big Santa Fe stone,
The souls of the tall corn gathering ‘round
And the gay little souls of the grass in the ground.
Listen to the tale the cottonwood tells,
Listen to the windmills, singing o’er the wells
Listen to the whistling flutes without price
And the myriad prophets out of paradise.
Harken to the wonder
That the night wind carries
Listen . . . . to . . . the . . . whisper . . .
Of . . . the . . . prairie . . . fairies

"Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, (fading to
Love and glory, a
Stars and rain, whisper
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet . . ." at the end)

   This wonderful saga was made possible in part by Vache's practice of keeping tablets of paper with him as he hiked cross country. "I nap and amble . . . . write fool thoughts in my grubby book..." He actually did take time out to observe the world around him and to verbally sketch ideas which he would return to later and complete as poems intended for publication. This was not unusual for verbal, musical and visual artists. Many talented writers discover the idea, and many use it to their great benefit. Today, I maintain a computer file of the same kind of jottings. If you are an aspiring poet, this may be the perfect time to begin your "grubby book" or file as the case may be.. . . . . . . The poem, like many Vachel creations, plays to the mind's eye like a movie, perhaps a movie "short" to share at Robert Redford's Sundance Film Festival. Even without the cinema production, the play of the scenery and sounds is a trip to the stars in a world of voyages to the kitchen.

If you have enjoyed these poems and thoughts, please arrange a performance of "Vachel Lindsay, The Poet Speaks" at your special event. My fee and length of performance are tailored to harmonize with the time provided for my appearance. For a meal and all the adult libations I can responsibly consume, I will come to your party and recite for up to an hour. For more information, contact Job Conger  544-6122

To share your thoughts about the poems and commentaries shared here, my appearance November 10 at Vachel Lindsay Home State Historic Site and almost anything else. email me writer@eosinc.com

Visit Job's Vachel Pages home page by clicking here