William Michaelian: John Anderson, My Jo

Music, anyone? I found this poignant little poem in Songs from Robert Burns, a pocket-sized volume I picked up a couple of months ago at a used bookstore here in Salem. The book is old, but it has no copyright or printing information. The publisher's name: Collins' Clear-Type Press, London and Glasgow. It has a marbled leather cover and marbled endpapers. A nice companion for a shivery winter day.


John Anderson My Jo

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo!

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo!

William Michaelian: Reading Tristram Shandy

Digressions are the sunshine of reading. — Laurence Sterne

Not long ago, I discovered that a poem of mine, "Reading Tristram Shandy," is linked in the introduction to a paper by Thomas Steele on Tristram Shandy as a forerunner to hypertext, and author Laurence Sterne's influence on writers such as Joyce, Stein, Woolf, and Vonngeut. In his paper, Steele discusses Sterne's creative use of language and page layout, his non-linear approach to storytelling, and how they seem to anticipate today's blogs and projects like Wikipedia. Along the way, Steele furnishes a number of links (of course!) to some fascinating examples and references.

Tristram Shandy, meanwhile, is a wonderful book. Sterne's vocabulary is impressive, his wit is keen, his sense of humor is delightfully wicked, and the way he breaks rules is potent medicine for readers and writers feeling trapped or bored by conventional literary "wisdom."

Sarah Friend: Writer's Block

Writer's block. Imbued with previous forward movement, we've all run, full-force, against that merciless brick wall, rebounding back. It sends us reeling, and leaves us messily sprawled on the ground, rubbing our heads, unsure as to what happened or how to proceed. This was my state of mind one recent morning, as I sat, coffee mug in one hand, pen in the other, when I remembered the timeless advice: Just keep writing, no matter what. My what wandered into, whatever happened to sugar cubes as a form of coffee sweeteners?

(Sugar) Cane Mutiny

In the days of yore, sugar cubes were daily liquidated
In London, Paris and New York from human cares they faded

Yet there lived a gallant sugar cube in a tin-box,
Who one fine morning found his home free of locks

The dangers of the world unbeknownst to him still
He shuffled outside to his dreams of adventure fulfill

But there upon the kitchen table, what did he see?
His dear old aunt drown in a cup of boiling tea.

Outraged, he spoke to bananas and pills and the like,
Describing in gory detail the horror of the Fourth Reich.

Rage against sugar cube cruelty grew in fame,
Which explains why today, we use aspartame.