Program 1: The shortness of life and the inevitability of death

This program is about the shortness of human life and the inevitaiblity of our death. It contains the poetry of people over the centuries that have addressed the issue and so that have been forced to do so due to the immanancy of their death.

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Transcript

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Ideas that have shaped human history as expressed in poetry, speeches, myth, and documents. A podcast by Alan Anforth.

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Listeners, my name is Alan Antforth, and this is my program on the ideas of history as expressed in poetry, speeches, myths, and documents. This is the first of these programs, and tonight's topic is the shortness of life and the inevitability of death. Some of tonight's poetry is historical, some of it dating back to the period of Shakespeare. One problem with poetry from the past is the language used. Terms change, meaning over time, words come into and out of use. Ideas or illusions that are relevant in one era are not terribly meaningful people in later eras. So that becomes a bit of a problem with the poetry. And sometimes I'll delete passages that I think lack meaning for that reason. A classic starting point for this topic is William Shakespeare, 1564 to 1616. In As You Like It he writes that all the worlds stage and that men and women merely play their part over an aging process. He sets out the seven stages of life for a man as he sees it, and the characteristics of those stages. It begins with the dependent baby and it finishes with an equally useless and dependent geriatric at the end of what he calls the seventh stage of life. The poem reads all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts. His acts being seven ages, at first the infant muling and puking in the nurse's arm, and then the whining schoolboy with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like a snail unwillingly to school. And then the lover, sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad made to his mistress's eyebrow. Then a soldier, full of strange oaths, and bearded like the part, jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking reputation even in the cannon's mouth, and then the justice, in fair round belly, with good cape on lined, with eyes severe and beard of formal cut, full of wise sores and modern instances, and so he plays his part. And the sixth age shifts into the lean and slippered pantaloom, with spectacles on the nose and pouch on the side, whose youthful hose, well saved, now a whirl too wide, for his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice turning again towards childish treble, pipes and whistles in his sound. Last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history is the second childishness and mere oblivion. Sand's teeth, sand's eyes, sand's taste, sands everything. In Elizabethan times, sans means without or lacking in, so the geriatric in in the seventh stage is lacking in teeth are the parts of the body. For some humans an awareness of approaching death is a welcome relief. For many others it is a source of great anxiety. A feeling of impending doom, apprehension about the inevitability of death is sometimes the motivation for human aspirations for a noble heroic or Martyr's death, to die for the cause, request to leave their mark on the world before they die, or to go out with a bang. The urge for a noble death was made in very direct terms by the American poet Claude McKay in his poem If We Must Die. He was a Jamaican American writer and poet, who was a central figure in the Harlem Renaissance. In nineteen nineteen he wrote If we must die in response to a wave of white on black race rights and lynchings following the conclusion of World War I. His poem reads If we must die, let it not be like hogs hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, while round us bath the mad and hungry dogs, making their mock at our cursed lot. If we must die, let us die nobly, so that our precious blood may not be shed in vain. Then even the monsters we defy shall be constrained to honour us, though dead. O kinsmen, we must meet the common foe, though far outnumbered, let us show us praise, And for their thousand blows deal one death blow. What though before us lies but the open grave? Like men, we'll face the murderous cowardly pack, pressed to the wall, dying but fighting back. Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, nineteen fourteen to nineteen fifty three, and wrote Do not go gently into that good night. He was written as a protest against meekly submitting to the inevitability of death. Thomas travelled widely and had a high profile, particularly in the United States, but his drug and alcohol problems caused major early deterioration in his health and his early death in an impecunious state. The poem reads Do not go gently into that good night. Old age should burn and rave at the close of day. Rage, rage against the dying light. Though wise men at their end no dark is right, because their words had forked no lightning, they do not go gently into that good night. Good men the last wave by crying how bright their frail deeds might have danced in the green bay, rage, rage against the dying light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, and learned too late they grieved it on its way. Do not go gently into that good night. Grave men near death who see the blinding sight, blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, rage, rage against the dying light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, curse bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gently into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying light. Thomas wrote other poems and prose that suggest a deep existential anxiety about death, including the poem And Death Shall Have No Dominion about the experience of a corpse in the grave. Like many poems, the poem has a repeating chorus. The opening stanza of the poem reads And death shall have no dominion. Dead men naked they shall be one with the man in the wind and the west moon. When their bones are picked clean and clean bones gone, they shall have stars at elbow and foot. Though they go mad they shall be sane. Though they sink through the seas they shall rise again. Though lovers be lost, love shall not, and death shall have no dominion, and death shall have no dominion. The shortness of life for all species living on the earth and the realization that we all live on borrowed time is a common theme in poetry. Randy J. Smith is an American poet who's written about his struggle with cancer. His work carries themes of resilience, hope and self-discovery, drawing from his own experience. His poem Living on Borrowed Time reads We live on borrowed time, it said, with fleeting days and nights ahead. Tomorrow's not a promised place, each moment precious, each embrace. The clock ticks softly, yet it calls, through summer's bloom and winter's falls, the truth reveals its subtle rhyme, we're passengers of borrowed time. When sickness knocks, the veil is torn, the frail thread of life are worn, the world grows sharper, colours bright, each breath becomes a gift, a light. Find what you love, pursue your peace, let joy and kindness never cease, for wealth and worry fade away, but love remains at the end of the day. So live with purpose, hold life near, and cherish those you hold most dear, for time is lent, not truly ours, a fleeting bloom of borrowed ours. The anonymous Australian poet who writes under the name the sleeping poet wrote the poem Life is a fleeting fragile thing, which reads Life's but a fleeting fragile thing, a flower blooming, then taking wing, a mere moment in eternity span, a blink of an eye, a flick of a hand, the sun rises, then sets once more. Leaves turn green, then fall to the floor, and seasons change as time marches on, a reminder that all that's born must be gone. We search for meaning in this brief sojourn, hoping the future will remember our legacy. But all things must pass. That's the way of the land, and in the end only memories will stand. We hold on tightly to what we can't keep, knowing that eventually we must release. And in this acceptance there's a kind of grace, a bit of sweet beauty in life's fleeting embrace. So let's cherish each moment, each passing day, for time waits for no one and it slips away. The Australian Canberra based poet AD Hope was academic in literature in the universities in Melbourne and Canberra. He addressed the shortness of life in the allegory of a bird in a poem entitled The Death of a Bird. He uses the image of a migrating bird taking its final migration. The bird migrates from cooler climates around Canberra to warmer fields elsewhere. It's guided by its instinct and also by landmarks by which it navigates. But as the bird ages, its instincts dim, and its capacity to fly is reduced and its recognition of landmarks are diminished. The poem reads For every bird there is this last migration. Once more the cooling year kindles her heart with a warm passage to the summer station. Love pricks the course in lights across the chart. Year after year a speck on the map divided by a whole hemisphere summons her to come. Season after season, sure and safely guided, going away, she is also coming home. And being home memory becomes a passion with which she feeds her brood and straws her nest. Hope goes on to describe the migration patterns of the bird in terms of the features of the places from which it migrates to which it migrates and then returns. The poem finishes as follows She feels it close now, the appointed season, the invisible thread is broken as she flies. Suddenly, without warning, without reason, the guiding spark of instinct winks and dies. Try as she will, the immense and complex map of hills and rivers mock her small wisdom with its vast designs. And darkness rises from East and Valley, and the winds buffet her with angry breath, and the great earth with neither grief nor malice, receives the tiny burden of her death. On a lighter note is Robert Burns, the Scottish poet in his poem Tam O'Shanter. It is a narrative form poem that describes the habit of Tam, a Scots name for Thomas, who is a farmer who often gets drunk with his friends in the public house in the Scottish town of Ayre after the markets, and his thoughtless way is especially towards his wife who waits for him at home. After one late night revelling following the market day, Tam rides home drunk on his horse Meg whilst a storm is brewing. On the way he sees the local haunted church of Alloway Kirk lit up with witches and warlocks dancing and the devil playing the bagpipes. Tam turns and flees on his horse, and the devil chases and catches him. In the course of the poem, Burns offers the following observations on the shortness of life. But pleasures are like poppy spread, you seize the flower, its bloom is shed, or like the snow all on the river, a moment white then melts forever, or like the aurora borealis rays that move before you can point it to their place, or like the rainbow's lovely form vanishing amidst the storm, no man can tether time nor tide. In some instances in history, people facing the immincy of their death have penned their reflections on life. One of those was Lord Vox, 1509 to 1566, who was imprisoned and executed for his involvement in English Tudor politics. On the occasion of his detention in the Tower of London pending his execution, he wrote the following poem A Quiet Mind. The listener needs to bear in mind the effect of time on the language used as previously explained. A quiet mind by Lord Vox. When all is done and said, in the end thus shall you find who most of all doth bathe in bliss that has a quiet mind, and clear from worldly cares to deem can be content, the sweetest time in all of his life is thinking to be spent. The body is subject to fickle fortune's power, and to a million mishaps in every causal hour, and death in time does change it to a clod of clay, whereas the mind which is divined, runs never to decay. Our wealth leaves us at death, our kinsmen at the grave, but virtue of the mind unto the heavens with us we have. Wherefore for virtue's sake I can be well content, the sweetest time in all my life to deem in thinking spent. On the same occasion Lord Vokes wrote the poem upon the image of death. It's long and it involves a range of issues and topics, but one of those topics is the inevitability of death for all people, famous and commoner alike. It reads in part My ancestors are turned to clay, and many of my mates are gone. My youngers daily drop away. And can I think to escape alone? No, no, I know that I must die, and yet my life amend not I not Solomon for all his wit, nor Samson, though he was strong, no king nor person ever yet could scape but death wherefore I know that I must die, and yet my life amend not I Though all the East did quake to hear of Alexander's dreadful name, and all the west did likewise fear to hear of Julius Caesar's fame, yet both death in dust now lie, who can then scape but he must die? If none can escape death's dreadful dart, if rich and poor he's Beckabay, if strong, if wise, if all do smart, then I do escape shall have no way. O grant me grace, O Lord, that I my life may mend sith I must die. Chiddych Tichborne, fifteen sixty two to fifteen eighty six. He was also executed for his involvement in Tudor politics, and specifically for his Catholicism. He was also held in the Tower of London, pending his execution, and he penned reflections on his life in on that occasion. Titchborne took part in the Babington plot to murder Queen Elizabeth and replace her with Mary Queen of Scots, who was next in line to the throne. The plot was foiled, he was arrested and later tried and sentenced to death. While in the Tower of London, on the eve of his execution, he wrote a piece of poetry that's come to be known as Tichborne's Elegy. He was executed next day by being hung, drawn and quartered. The practice of being hung, drawn and quartered was an ancient one. Convicted traitors were fastened by the feet to a hurdle or a wooden panel and drawn along behind a horse to the place of execution, where they were hanged almost to the point of death, then emasculated, then disemboweled, then beheaded and cut into quarters. Their remains were then displayed in prominent places around the country, including London Bridge, to serve as a warning to other would be traitors. The punishment was only ever applied to men for reasons of public decency. Women convicted of high treason were instead burnt at the stake. The elegy reads My prime of life is but a frost of cares, my feast of joys is but a dish of pain, my crop of corn is but a field of tears, and all my good is but vain hope of gain. The day is past and yet I saw no sun, and now I live and now my life is done. My tale was heard, and yet it was not told. My fruit is fallen, yet my leaves are green. My youth is spent, and I am not old. I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun, and now I live, and now my life is done. I sought my death and found it in my womb. I looked for life and saw it was a shade. I trod the earth and knew it was a tomb, and now I die, and now I was but made. My glass is full, and now my glass is run, and now I live and now my life is done. In a similar vein is the English playwright, satirist, pamphleteer, and sometimes politician Thomas Nash, fifteen sixty seven to sixteen oh one, in his poem A Litany in the Time of Plague, when he was facing his death by reason of the plague infection in London. In the sixteenth century, London suffered a number of plagues that culminated in the Great Plague of 1665. Nash was a victim of one of the earlier episodes. The bubonic plague was highly contagious and produced a quick and traumatic death. Its symptoms were well known, and people knew of their impending death once those symptoms emerged. Nash follows the pattern that you saw earlier with Lord Vox in taking solace from the fact that all men must die famous and the commoner, the rich, the poor, etc. Listeners may not be aware of some of the people he refers to, but his reference to Helen is Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ship. Hector is the Prince of Troy, that fought the duel against Achilles outside the walls of Troy. A litany in a time of plague by Thomas Nash. A Jew, farewell, Earth's bliss, this world uncertainties, fonder life's lustful joys, death proves them all but toys, none from his darts can fly. I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Rich men trust not in wealth, gold cannot buy your health. All things to the end are made. The plague full swift goes by. Beauty is but a flower which wrinkles will devour. Brightness falls from the air. Queens have died young and fair, dust hath closed Helen's eyes. Strength stoops unto the grave, worms fed on Hector brave, swords may not fight with fate. Earth still holds open her gate. Come, come, the bells do cry. Haste therefore each degree to welcome destiny. Heaven is our heritage, earth but a player stage, mount we unto the sky. I am sick, I am sick, I must die. The Australian indigenous poet Ondagoo Nunakar, nineteen twenty to nineteen ninety three, described the death not of the individual but of her tribe in her poem Last of His Tribe. She was a prominent Aboriginal Australian poet, political activist and educator, known for her significant contributions to literature and aboriginal rights. She was a key figure in the 1967 referendum which aimed to amend the Constitution to include Aboriginals as part of the political process. The poem The Last of the Tribe reads as follows They came into the little town, a semi naked band, subdued and silent, all that remained of their tribe. They came here to the place of their old Bullra ground, where now many white men hurry about like ants. Notice of the estate agent reads rubbish may be tipped here. Now it covers half the traces of the old Burra ring. We are as strangers here and now, but the white tribes are the strangers. We belong here. We are of the old ways. We are the corroborey and the Burr Ground. We are the old ceremonies, the laws of elders, we are the wonder tales from the dream time and the tribal legends told. We are the past, the hunts and the laughing games, the wandering campfire. The scrubs are gone, the hunting and the laughter, the eagle is gone, the emu and the kangaroo are gone from this place. The Burra ring is gone, the corrobury is gone, we are going. Change is the law. The new must oust the old. I look at you and in back in the long ago. Old Pinaroo lonely and lost here, last of your clan. I pause there to say Pinaroo is a reference to an old Aboriginal person who was the last of their clan in the small town. Left only with your memories, you sit and think of the joyous throng, the happy people, the voices and the laughter all gone, all gone, and you remain alone. I ask and you let me hear the soft vowed tongue to be heard now, no more forever for me. You enact all scenes always, and you use a boomerang and a spear. You singer of ancient tribal songs, you leader once in the corroborey, you twice in fierce tribal fights, with wild enemies black from over the river, or gone or gone, displaced person in your own country, lonely in city crowds, last of your tribe. Some of the terminology used in some of these poems are further explained in the hard copy versions of the program that are available for downloading.

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