Browse Exhibits (6 total)

George Day is an Emeritus Professor of Languages & Literatures at the University of Northern Iowa. He holds degrees from Dartmouth College, where he was a Rufus Choate Scholar; Harvard University; and the University of Colorado, where he was the first William Fullmer Reynolds Scholarship recipient. He has taught at Punahou School, Honolulu; the University of Colorado; and the University of Northern Iowa. Day taught at UNI for 28 years, specializing in American Literature. 

My introduction to James Hearst’s poetry came in the form of music:
BLIND WITH RAINBOWS, an epic-like poem he published in 1962 as a cantata for the opening of Russell Hall—SCI’s brand new music building. Bill Latham wrote the music, Hearst the lyrics. 52 years ago. 

I found it unforgettable, both as music and as poetry. In it, Hearst celebrated creativity, not just self-expression, but the difficulty of self-expression:

His road is hard who bears within himself seeds of 
sun, who sees how patient earth cracks and strains to 
bring a flower to bloom, how apple buds are mauled by 
the tiger growth into their ripened fruit, how forcing 
sap shoulders its way when April stirs the trees, how we 
are born in pain and feel the scar all our lives who carve 
stones from our hearts. 

So for me these Hearst cantata lyrics preceded any knowledge of his poetry for me. 

My next experience came in the form of a few well-known poems that people seem to know and mention: “How the devil should I know if there are rocks in your field,” from “Truth” and “You said take a few dry sticks, cut the ends slantwise to let in water—“ from “Forsythia”—both poems that seemed song-like to me. 

Then I met James Hearst, first as a teacher for a graduate class, right in this very spot, one floor down, then as a colleague, and admired him mostly from afar, since I was young and preoccupied with—well, everything. 

Only later when I began editing the poems in the late 1990s for the complete poems anthology did I really began to pay attention to his large body of poetic work—over 600 poems from the 1920s until his death in 1982. 

After my retirement in 2008 I returned to his poetry as a musician, which was in fact my first profession before I discovered I didn’t like rehearsing all that much. 

Years ago I had written music for Hearst’s 1937 poem “The Movers” and more or less performed it a few times, not very well. But after 2008 I returned to it, knowing I had a start. And it just unfolded, more or less naturally—PERFORM? (At least some of it.) 

Then came “Truth,” “Forsythia” and 13 others, and before long I had a CDs worth of Hearst poems as songs, recorded them at Catamount studios and have been performing them ever since as a Humanities Iowa scholar. It was great fun, and the songs/poems seemed to reach at least those familiar with Hearst’s poetry. 

Now, with this opportunity to reflect further on James Hearst’s poetry as potential songs, in the last month I’ve found three more poems that work as songs—I think—and many more that don’t. 

Which raises the question: What’s the difference? Why do some poems almost write themselves as songs, and some don’t?

Let’s explore this tonight. 

WHAT IS POETRY? (ask) I do like this definition: WEIGHTED LANGUAGE 

The more weight words get from a writer/poet, the more we read it like poetry—that is, slowly, paying attention to the words and meanings, since they’re clearly not meant to be read quickly, just for fun or information. Most prose is in fact not weighted—we read quickly, right through the words to their meanings and take instruction, get the story, change our behavior, and so on. 

But poetry—weighted language—requires attention: Buffalo Bill’s defunct, etc. (e.e. Cummings)

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? 

Tell all the truth, but tell it slant. 

No one who lives here knows how to tell a stranger what it’s like, the land I mean. . . 

Now, language can be weighted many ways: with rhyme, rhythms, word choice, metaphors, imagery, story, and all the poetic devices we learned in introductory poetry classes. 

When a poet works more with rhythms and rhymes to weight language, a song looms. Not always, but it’s a start. Repeated lines help, as do surprises, which music can help emphasize. 

NOW: THE DEMONSTRATION: 
Handout: SIX POEMS—let me read them all aloud and warn you: I’ve set three of them to music, and three of them not. Let’s see if we agree: 

READ: AND VOTE ON EACH AFTER I FINISH: SONG OR NOT SONG? 

“I’m a Christian, But” 
It gets pretty thick when 
you’re supposed to eat crow every morning 
because some nitpicker wants to sell you
a deal about my brother’s keeper for
a nice fat donation out of your pocket. 
I say, let the bastards starve if they 
won’t work for a living, nobody helped us, 
did they? Just because you pay 
your taxes and keep your house 
painted and lawn mowed, they think you’ve 
got it made. But who knows what’ll happen 
to you tomorrow? You’re supposed to dig 
into the old sack for a few dollars 
here and a few there because some guinea 
on the other side of the world lost his g-string in an earthquake. 
Look at my grocery bill, 
came in the mail today, 
do you blame me for hollering?

“No Answer” SONG 
The sun rose up with a fuzzy eye, 
didn’t make up its bed of clouds. 
Birds’ racket shatters the air, 
if you like dew, well, it glistens, 
means wet feet on the garden path, 
I slept well enough last night— 
why do I feel so lousy this morning? 

The car starts, faucets don’t leak, 
rained enough to keep the lawn happy, 
flowers too, bending and swaying,
had scrambled eggs and mushrooms 
for breakfast, my favorite dish. 
But my mouth tastes awful— coffee too strong? 
Why do I feel so lousy this morning? 

Headlines no worse than yesterday’s 
accidents all over, everybody on strike, 
nobody worth a damn won a baseball game. 
That girl I met, full of joie de vivre, 
called for an appointment, my blood 
ought to jump instead of slog along, quite a chick,
I ought to be crowing instead— 
Why do I feel so lousy this morning?

“Chill Comfort” 
The sun rose, burned off the mist, 
morning serene as a tranquilizer the dream, 
busy traffic with its happy sound, 
my stomach pleased with breakfast, 
coffee aromatic, hot, waiting— 
what more could I want? 
An empty eggshell feeling 
leaves me in a hollow of time, 
pen heavy as a crowbar, 
paper blank denies meaning to black marks.
All this because the damned telephone 
said I couldn’t see you today?
I look out the window, 
even the bird feeder is empty


“This is how they do it” SONG 
‘‘I own this farm,’’ Henry Jensen 
told the surveyors who tramped 
across his fields to locate towers 
for a transmission line, ‘‘and you 
are trespassers, so get out.’’ 
In the argument that followed 
their tripod fell down, one man 
got the nose bleed and Henry found 
a swelling bump on his forehead. 
The next day the law invited him
to sit on the judgment seat. 
‘‘Is it my land or ain’t it?’’ he asked a mite 
loud in case the Judge was hard of hearing. 
The Judge said, ‘‘They will pay 
for an easement.’’ Henry said, ‘‘I ain’t 
selling and my twelve gauge will back 
my decision.’’ The Judge answered, 
‘‘Condemnation procedures may be necessary.’’ 
Then a revelation came to Henry,
this is how they do it, this is how 
they plaster cement for four-lane highways,
shopping centers, urban sprawl, over 
the best farm land the Lord ever made. 
This is how they do it, with money,
judges and the law. The bastards, may they 
eat crow yet when the growing land is gone. 


“Day After Day” 
The baby cries in its crib, 
the young mother gives it 
her startled glance to play with, 
the father fingers his new moustaches, 
packs anxieties in his briefcase, 
holds up a finger for the wind, 
sails to his office. 
Beer in the icebox keeps better
than dollar bills, the rent wakes 
and stares at the calendar,
a grocery list says the clock is fast, 
why the hell wear out shoes 
if no one smiles after the dance? 
Who would die to be born again, 
happiness stays in its mousehole, 
the traps are all baited with despair— 
a bottle of whiskey to take to church,
the sacred wafer to bribe the bar girls.


“Where did they go?” SONG 
Where did they go, the maple grove, 
the rolling hills, the rows of corn, 
the meadowlark’s repeated tune? 
This is the land where I was born
now in time’s quicksand sunk too soon. 

I see it now with memory’s sight, 
the dappled days of sun and rain, 
the field’s gate through a leafy lane, 
where once I scoured the moldboard bright 
but will not plow again.