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Jim Daniels's Poetry Month Pick, April 24, 2009
"Terence, this is stupid stuff”
by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)
"Terence, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad."
Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world's not.
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:
The mischief is that 'twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I've lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.
Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour
The better for the embittered hour;
It will do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul's stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.
There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all that sprang to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.
—I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.
Jim Daniels Comments:
When we studied this poem in high school, what got my attention more than anything was the first line. I’d never read a poem that had either the word “stupid” or the word “stuff” in it. In the midst of a great deal of “lofty” poetry we were reading in our literature class, Housman stood out as someone who was more down-to-earth, who perhaps spent as much time in hop-yards as on the mountaintop. While part of this poem’s appeal to me as a high school student came from its discussion of drinking, I find that it still appeals to me today for other reasons.
I identify with the informality and directness of the voice in that first section calling out the poet for gloomy, self-pitying verse. Hey, things can’t be so bad if you’ve got your appetite for food and drink, right? The poet is, it seems, painfully aware of his own excesses. I think all of us poets are Terence at one time or another, and benefit from recognizing that “it’s stupid stuff”—or, more painfully, having someone else point that out to us. I enjoy the humor and sarcasm of the work, the irreverence and self-awareness of it as Housman makes fun of himself, then, as “Terence,” responds to the criticism of his own poems in the second part.
This was the first poem I read that talked about beer in such detail. Having read many others over the years, I still feel that the second section includes one of poetry’s more precise, accurate descriptions of drunkenness and its temporary pleasures—“Happy till I woke again.” The deadpan, understated humor of “I was I, my things were wet” still makes me smile.
Housman, for the most part, uses ordinary conversational language, and that, for me, makes him stand out among many of the poets of his time. There’s a deceptive precision of language here that shows how “ordinary” language, with the skillful use of compression and juxtaposition, can have a powerful impact.
Finally, this poem lays out the issue that I often feel myself as a poet: “‘Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale/Is not so brisk a brew as ale.” Housman crystallizes the tension between the difficulty of poetry, and how it pulls its readers deeper into the complex, difficulty world, versus the temptation to want to escape that world, through drinking a few beers, watching bad TV, or pursuing whatever offers that escape.
About Jim Daniels:
Jim Daniels's latest books include Revolt of the Crash-Test Dummies (Eastern Washington University), winner of the Blue Lynx Poetry Prize, and Mr. Pleasant (Michigan State University), short stories, both published in 2007.
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