Willows Revisited

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118But his attitude is no longer the querulous one which characterizedhim in the Ark. He is almost genial. He knows that the contemporarygeneration is again "steeped in sin" and although he may caution theyouth against putting too much money on the horses on Fair Day, theraces being as he says "foreordained" he also knows that his advicewill not be taken and that they will never learn. But he does makethe point that man should not blame the horses;Shun Fair Day, Son, 'tis never ours To mock the loser when he's slow, Or tempt the steed beyond his powers, To win, when he should place or show:The driver in the harness race Must bear alone the barbed defeat, He knows when best to slow the pace, And win it in another heat:Such things in life are foreordained, But we blind mortals steeped in sin Will never learn �but Just complain, For And betting is as bad as gin.We are given a final picture of Noah in his old age. He is bent and worn and he suffers from different ailments, and pork and beans of which he has always been very fond now Iie, we are told, "be heavy" He might indeed be a lonesome and tragic figure, were it not for his memories. He is very rich in these, and he is content in knowing that he can still recall the long parade of those whom he once held dear and whom his memory has now enshrined beyond the power of time to ever fade. They are vividly presented, "adorned and scented" and Middleduck for once rises in artistry above the usual lessons which he considers his poetic duty.
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119The days will tend to mar man's noble dial, Six hundred years will spavin his proud gait, And tie his spine in kinks and knots �the trials Of centuries will twist him out of shape; And pork and beans heavy � and arthritis Will plague his nights, and then by day the bends, Or Bang's disease, or sometimes just gastritis, Will keep him home forgotten by his friends: However, such is age, and I'm contented For age can still review the past parade, Of curled, adorned, and beautified and scented � Those lovely willing gals who never fade.Such is Noah the great epic work of which Saskatchewan may indeed be proud. It undoubtedly has Its faults but it also has its momentsand this must be said for it that where it lacks in lyrical qualityit gains in character and moral earnestness. Middleduck, the lonesomebachelor on his little stretch of flooded or drought-stricken land finds timeandfor much philosophical reflection and he also seems to mature with each successive flood on the river. He is something of a classicist or he would not have chosen the outdated and even unpopular epic and ballad style of poetry as his medioum of expression. But fame and popularity do not concern him in the least. He writes because he feels he must, and for this reason his poetry has a singular purity and simplicity not shared by any other member of the School of Seven. One feels this particularly in that most beautiful of all Saskatchewan poems, TheMendicant Poet. Here, if anywhere, Middleduck mirrors himself, the lonesome child of the poetic Muse, out of touch with his contemporaries and unable to adapt himself to his age. He makes no concession to modernity; he is neither convolute nor cerebral, the cow does not particularly interest him, and as far as innerness is concerned, it enters here frankly and simply to assuage the poet's physical hunger and makes no attempt to approach even the level of Poltergeist. Denied the good things of life, the "peppered liver pie" and the apple strudel or even coffee and crullers, the poet retreats into himself, in the end it is a spiritual hunger which he faces. The great question of "how
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120fares the soul within" is in the end the paramount question. Andlike the Mendicant himself, Middleduck is content to go his own way and write in his own way, calmly trusting that his high-minded idealismand poetic integrity will some day find him his honored place inCanadian letters. THE MENDICANT POET.Beset with fleas, despondent, lacking cash,The weary traveller treads the roads of men, And in his well-worn pantaloons a gash, And in his eye a tear � and he is thin.He meets a stranger; "Hast thou almses here? Or canst thou give me solace with a beer?" The citizen is mute, he looks askance, Nor deigns to give the weary one a glance.The* to the hut he goes; tap, tap! "Good Friend, Hast thou a peppered liver-pie to lend? An apple strudel? Or a hunk of ham? Coffee and crullers for a hungry man?""Nay, we have none of these," the dame responds, "We doubt thy hunger, mendicant -be gone! Nor have we call for verses. Eeat it, quick.' No minstrel's songs within this bailiwick!"Abashed the bard retreats �He has no heart To wrestle with the damsel for a tart; The turnip from the furrow he will tweak, And live upon the parsnip and the leek.At eve we see him sitting at the door, I well filled with turnips, smoking hay, and poor, Andt on his face a sweet seraphic grin �'Tis hard to say how fares the soul within.
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121OSIRIS JONES-JCNES S.O.M. The Laureate From a literary standpoint probably the least distinguishedof the present Regina School of poets is the Laureate of Saskatchewan, Osiris Jones-Jones. He has been the official poet of two successive Saskatchewan governments, neither of them regard him in any way as being a political turncoat merely because he places his poetic talents at their disposal regardless of their own political differences. As a somewhat obscure civil servant, first in the Department of Agriculture under the C.C.F., and later in the Department of Public Works under the present administration, Jones-Jones has always taken the attitude that he must impartially serve whoever employs him and this high-minded political neutrality has ensured his continued employment through administrative changes. This is unusual,but he is exceedingly useful and is not easily replaced in spiteof the fact that everybody in Canada writes poetry. Jones-Jones can be counted on. Whenever the Government needs a verse or two in support of some project or perhaps a couplet to promote some particular tourist attraction, Jones-Jones can be depended upon to deliver the poetic goods. Let one of the Departments of the Government say, for example, that it wants twelve lines in praise of the Minister of Agriculture in a booklet such as its Fifty Years of Progress, or that it wants two verses describing the accomodations at Lake Wishtaboola for the tourist brochure, Trails to Paradise, and that it wants these by 11:35 the following morning, Jones-Jones Is always equal to the occasion. Such precision and
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122reliability is not only valuable to any government but Jones-Jones obliges without any thought of remuneration, depite the fact that on special occasions, as in the case of COW already mentioned, he was glad to receive the fifty dollars honorarium.As a poet Jones-Jones is said to lack fervour. This is understandable because of his political neutrality. Although like JordanMiddleduck he regards his talent as a gift to be devoted to publicservice he lacks Middleduck's sense of mission. He feels that anyjpublic service is worth while and he has no great concern for political or moral consequences or even of having influence of any kind. Like the songs of the birds which he records on his tape recorder, he feels that ma his voice is heard today and stilled tomorrow, but that it has no great meaning in time or in literature. Undoubtedly this attitude is the reason for the criticism frequently directed against him that he lacks warmth. Indeed the opinion has more than once been expressed in literary circles that regardless of Saskatchewan's natural desire to go Ontario one better in the field of art, the School of Seven would be improved if there were only six.But Canada, and in particular Saskatchewan, owes Jones-Jones a great debt whatever of his own poetic achievement. It is true he is the author of the Provincial anthem, Saskatchewan, Thou Golden, which alone will ensure him honorable mention in the literature of Western Canada. But apart from that, it is through his splendid skill in tape recording that the voice of "M," or more popularly, the Muse, was first heard. As a civil servant he must to some extent preserve anonymity, and indeed it is sometime difficult to know whether some verse or other in a government publication is the result of his talent
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123or is simply governmental routine. But when it comes to the discovery of the voice, or voices, of what scholars so-far designate as M, we must give Jones-Jones the full credit whether, as some maintain, he actually wrote the verses himself, or whether they were done at his request by some girls in his office.Jones-Jones is not only an ardent bird-watcher, but, as alreadyindicated, is an expert at tape recording and it may well be that inSaskatchewan at least he is better known for his recordings of birdnoises than for poetry. He has succeeded for example in making analbum of the mating call of the snearth, no mean feat sincethe recording of the complete series involved his being buried up tohis neck in the Saskatchewan dust for several days at a time and asetting out Innumerable Jars of peanut-butter, and it was throughhis ability as a tape recorder that the voice and poetry of M wasfirst heard on that Dominion Day when the Regina School first metin Willowview Cemetery to celebrate the anniversary of Sarah Bink'sdeath. The voice itself skillfully introduced the different poetsas they stepped forward to pay their poetic tributes, but just whosevoice it is or where Jones-Jones got the poetry is anybody's guess.But the interesting thing is that they were not only played duringthe ceremony but they were also re-recorded together with the poemswhich were declaimed in honor of Sarah or of Willows before they weretossed on the ceremonial pyre. The result is that the complete procedings on that occasion has come down to us on tape and has thus been preserved for posterity. It is an achievement of great literary significance not only because of the first appearance of M, but alsothe recording gives us a first hand account of the entry of PurgePotatok into the field of Saskatchewan letters.*
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4-se complete proceedings of the Dominion Day Ceremony andSarah picnic as recorded by Jones-Jones together with the poems declaimed and later published by the Government in it 'Fifty Years of Progress are given in AppendixLittle need be said of Jones-Jones' own work h\na2� since as already stated it lacks fervour. There are however exceptions. Certainly the closing lines of Moonlight on Wascana Lake which, in spite of theco-operative effort of the whole Regina School,undoubtedly bears the imprint of Jones-Jones since it was written before the defeat of the C.C.F Government Indicate that Jones-Jones can take a definite stand. Moreover there are times as in You Take the Gravel Road in which he definitely seems to express a criticism of the roads of his province;OH YOU TAKE THE GRAVEL ROAD.Oh you take the gravel road, And I'll take the dirt road, And I'll be in Johnson Lake before you � Though I think, my True Love, We'd better take the same,Since its likely that I'd never see more of you:For the one road is wash-board,And the other deep in slither,Though there's short cuts and detours,On both that take you thither �And I can point you down thereAnd put you on the track �Heaven help you, True Love,If you try to get back.Another poem in similar vein, though more lyrical is calledTHE ROAD TO PELVIS FROM CACTUS LAKE. From Cactus Lake to Pelvis, Is Just a little hop, Its graded dirt for forty miles, With no occasion to stop � Unless, of course, you have a flat, Or perhaps you just get stuck, And If you're ever out of gas � Oh Boy, you're out of luck.
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125But Jones-Jones by no means takes this defeatist attitude to-wards all roads. In his poem, "The Broad Highway" (incidentally he is by no means above a bit of plagiarism from time to time), he becomes enthusiastically lyrical over an Improved road and calls himself the friend of all who travel thereon.THE BROAD HIGHWAY.Give me a house by the side of the road, Where the world goes rushing by, The wide road, the open road, That leads to more road, and sky, Where the cars go, and the winds go, And the dust flows after, And the tires scream, and the girls scream With Young wild laughter:And give me a house with a wide-flung door, And six painted signs that tell, Of hot dogs, and toasted dogs, And pizza pie to sell � And I'll be a friend to the passer by With potato chips and smokes, And root beer and ginger beer, And hamburger buns and cokes.There is no doubt that Jones-Jones can be a real booster whenhe sets out to be. In Lake Washkaboola. written for the Highways'Department booklet, Trails to Adventure, with Map, he misses none of the activities which that popular resort presents to the camper. As a bird-watcher mm and nature student himself he is quick to point out some of nature not usually found in the parks, and he calls attention especially to cries of the Jay and the crow as they awaken the camp to a new day, in this case a rainy one.LAKE WASHKABOOLA. Come to Lake Washkaboola's quiet retreat, Beyond the rush of city's strife and care, With nothing much to do but sleep and eat, Or wash the car and sit and breathe the air
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126Here legend tells that someone caught a pike,And some still try their luck �there's boats to rent, While others name the trees, or bird-watch, hike, Or tighten pegs and fly-screens on the tent.Here nature casts aside her old disguise, Revealing treasures seldom city known � Hornets, mosquitos, spiders, leeches, flies, And/thousand jewelled beetles all her own:Then come to Washkaboola once again,Arid Join with crow and blue-jay greeting dawn, And boil your coffee in refreshing rain, Then nap, or read an old Maclean's and yawn.Undoubtedly one of Jones-Jones best poems was that writtenat the request of the Department of Agriculture in order to promote a greater attendance at the Municipal Fairs which the Department was encouraging. The attendance had been falling off, some say, because of Middleduck's expostulation that the harness races at the Fairs were "foreordained." Jil Come to the Fair departs from the usual list of the Joys and excitement which the fairs present, but stresses the regrets and the emptiness of life which each must inevitably suffer who has turned away from life and has not ventured to turn one of the wheels of fortune on the Midway or even had his palm read or something in the shrouded tent,COME TO THE FAIR. When autumn comes and grass is brown and bent, And winter looms, will you then turn and say, "So passes time! Another season spent, And I, of all, am one who failed The Day." There is within each summer's toil and strife, One day that's set aside and yclept, Fair, Just one, and yet you turned your face on life � Fair Day has come and gone and you not there.
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127Is it for such as you Departments make Their sacrifice to subsidize the beeves? Or try incite the 4-H Clubs to bake, And win a prize for pickled beets and sheaves? For you no wheel of fortune turned this day Nor dusky siren lured to shrouded tent --No wonder now you're sad; you stayed away, And spend your time in wishing you had went.PremierJones-Jones poem, The was never published. It was meant originally as campaign literature during the last election, but when it became apparent that the Government might possibly be defeated Jones-Jones himself decided that it would be better to withdraw it and kept for the next election. It was only by accident that it was found. Like most of the poetry of Jones-Jones when done to order it is not of any particular literary merit. But it is typically Laureate and illustrates his facility and versatility. Incidentally it throws light on the premier;The PremierSome day, My Friends, I'll lay this burden down, And turn away from politics and strife, Admit that even I must doff the crown Of Premier and return to private life;But not right now big issues rise anew, Problems of agriculture, and the miles Of gravel roads, to mention only two �; So turn deaf ear to opposition wiles;Believe them not! They say, and here I quote "The time is ripe for change! But I say "no" Not in the middle of the stream the vote That brings about a change and overthrow;Four years ago, My Friends, I dared to state With confidence, "The future lies ahead!" And that same thought I now reiterate � But what have they to offer you instead?
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128They Just keep saying, and I quote again, The Province needs a change!" But why, I ask, It isn't change we need so much as rain, And honest men to bravely face the task.I wouldn't trust that bunch! They're out for spoil They'll miss out"glorious heritage, the bums! Which ain't just wheat, but sulphur, potash, oil, And colour-television when it comes.And so, My Friends, I know you'll do what's right Comes voting day, and give them their desert, If they want change, hell, plough them out of sight, And learn them to go spreading lies and dirt.One of the most interesting of the poems from the versatile pen of Jones-Jones is TO A G0WPHER written for a Burns Night Dinner in Regina at which a number of the descendents of the early Scottish fur traders as well as a number of descendant of Burns himself were to be present. Jones-Jones was commissioned to write a poem for the occasion, preferably, if he could manage it, in the Burns dialect. And he managed very well. Despite the fact that he knew little about the fur trade of early Western Canada he had, as a boy in Saskatchewan, kept himself in pocket money by snaring gophers with binder twine for the sake of the one-cent bounty on their tails. It was the custom however among the boys of his day to collect only the tall and let the rest of the gopher go so as not to deplete the natural resources of the neighborhood, and in his poem Jones-Jones tells of his fur trading activities and mentions some of the frustrations. TO A GOWPHER is quite evidently modelled after Burns's TO A FIELDMOUSE, and was a great success at the dinner. As the evening progressed it was variously described by the descendants as being either "The best damn thing that Burns ever wrote," or as "better than any damn thing that Burns ever wrote," the opinion depending upon
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129the particular slant of patriotism towards either Saskatchewan orScotland which the literary critic happened to have at the time. Itis a poem which, as far as known, is the only one over which blowswere almost exchanged, and might indeed have been had not the next series of three toasts been proposed. These, to Burns's great-grandfather,to his great grandchildren, and to the North West Fur Company followedshortly after by three more toasts to Burns' great grandfather again, "the GreattoFur West North Com'ny" and finally, to "Our Great Four Fathers who built the C.P.R."hifted attention from literature to Canadian history.TO A GOWPHERWee gowpher, leetle fur-tailed moosie,Could I but follow doon yer hoosie, Or send behind you a wee pussy, I'd im hae your tail;But since I carina', dye, I'll stick it And snare ye wi' a string on picket, Through bliss and bale;Ye'11 gi your brush, though dinna ken't A tail's a tail, and worth a cent, And furred or no, and broke or bent, Ye'11 Just maun rue it; So stick your haid within the reel, A cent's a cent �och, slippery eel, Some lousy, sawed-off, dirty de'il, Hae beat me to iti ,

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