Little Boy Blue

By

Melie M. Bacon

© 2010 by Melie Bacon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

I wish to acknowledge the contribution of Doreen Dixon, whose many hours of selfless assistance were vital in preparing my manuscript for publication. Thanks for all of your hard work, for your friendship, and for believing in me. Your treasure awaits you in Heaven.

Cover Design by: Doreen B. Dixon.

Cover Photo: Elementary School photo of author (circa 1965).

Introduction by: Tom Nordgren, Ph.D.

Dedicated to my late Father for a lifetime of love and sacrifice;and to the memory of my elder brother, Robert R. Bacon, Jr., who, despite his tender age, displayed an uncommon intelligence and the potential for greatness before his untimely and tragic demise. . .

1953-1957

He was a cherubic child...

the firstborn, and not yet four

when Lucifer closed the lid;

and God opened Heaven’s door.

...and also to the memory of my younger brother, Sgt. 1st Class, Henry “Butch” Bacon, who was killed in the line of duty during Operation Iraqi Freedom. If the true measure of a man is determined by the number of people who attend his funeral then Butch is head and shoulders above the throng. Surely his name is written in the Book of Life.

1958-2004

If the message on this page

—a relic ravished by time—

is found by a distant age

(an age without war and crime),

then these words on musty leaf

will reveal a prophet’s grief

and echo a poet’s rage

at a past world’s heedless plight:

‘To its end with all its might!’

CONTENTS

Introduction ………………………………...…………...

Proem ……………………………………………………..

Apologia …………………………………………………

Rainbow Friend ……………………………..………….

Haikuvale ……….………………………………………

Terrain of the Tern ……………………………………...

As the Sun Set …………………………………………..

Goodbye ………………………………………………...

Unalive ………………………………………………….

Phoenix-like …………………………………………….

By Love Waylaid ……………………………………….

In a Forest, Near a Stream ………………………………

Nature’s Guest ………………………………………......

One Summer Morning …………………………………..

Splendor of Spring ………………………………………

My Continent ……………………………………………

Steel Heart ……………………………………….……....

Where the Rocks Have Eyes …………………………….

Sculptured Clay ………………………………………….

Pearls Before Swine ……………………………………..

1955-?……………………………………………………

The Sentinel Tree …………………………………………

Elegy to Keats ……………………………………………

A Word Too Seldom Heard ………………………………

The Wordweaver …………………………………………

My Promiscuous Muse …………………………………...

To My Chagrin …………………………………………...

Two Blue Suns ……………………………………………

Smile Again ………………………………………………

Perpetual ‘Motion ………………………………………...

This Nameless Thing ……………………………………..

I Heard My Muse Singing ………………………………..

A Kindred Spirit ………………………………………….

Share the Journey ………………………………………..

A Lingering Look ………………………………………..

The Giant, the Queen, and I ……………………………...

Semblance of a Sonnet …………………………………...

The Option ……………………………………………….

Tick! Tock! ……………………………………………...

Lost & Found …………………………………………….

Delia Claire ………………………………………………

Southern Belle ……………………………………………

Introduction

Melie Bacon and His Masters

A show recently ran at the Grand Palais in Paris entitled Picasso et les Maitres, where paintings by old masters were paired with others by the Spaniard Picasso. The pairings had been determined, it seems, by visual association and especially by the paintings’ subject matter, and offered viewers a rich opportunity to approach Picasso’s work in a historical light. I felt something like what one of the visitors to the Palais might have felt, last spring, upon first reading a poem by Melie Bacon—here is an eloquent contemporary poet writing in the style of Emily Dickinson. I couldn’t help putting them side-by-side in my mind, Emily Dickinson’s lyrics and this recently-found poem, and I came away impressed with Bacon’s struggle to articulate obviously powerful thoughts and feelings in that severely restricted form.

I ran across said poem on a day with no goals. I corresponded with the author a few times previously and had much enjoyed our dialogue; I found him to have a real understanding of form and an inquiring poetic mind. Later I happened upon his work at an online poetry website—a pop-up appeared on the screen when I first signed on, advertising “free poetry.” Since—depending upon your camp—it was both an oxymoron and a redundancy, I couldn’t help but click on it. The pop-up disappeared and a poem rose up entitled This Nameless Thing . . . by Melie Bacon! The synchronicity was compelling and I found it to be an intriguing poem, a far cry from much of the poetry to be found on garden-variety websites. In fact, to my mind it demonstrates great potential; it has that feeling of intense emotion “being recollected in tranquility,” to quote a famous passage from Lyrical Ballads. It is mature in that same Coleridgian sense, not just in terms of the craft it displays, but also in terms of its evident thoughtfulness and creativity.

I did read a few other poems that day from Bacon’s collection, Little Boy Blue, and one entitled Tick! Tock! sticks in my mind as forcefully as any by the Romantic Poets themselves. I won’t discuss that poem quite yet, but let me state up front that its author is a formidable poet in the making. His poems are often meditative and passionate. They are at times supple and intricately wrought. I think if you give this collection even a short evening, you’ll find nourishment and surprise enough to draw you back for more. Melie Bacon probably won’t become a household namebut as he develops his voice, who’s to say? Conrad had to retire from the sea first. Dickinson had to pass away. For a first book of poems, these exhibit admirable confidence and skill.

Let’s take a look at the poem Steel Heart, which seems to spring from the pages of Emily Dickinson herself—it is an explorative poem, and brave. Like Haikuvale, it takes a familiar form but then modifies it with considerable skill,by repeating the haiku form as verses in a larger poem. Steel Heartinhabits the same small space as many of Dickinson’s poems, but it is even more minimalist and much less formal, varying from lines of four to eight beats and moving from a strong iambic to trochaic to sprung rhythms. The traditional rhyme scheme is undercut by the surprising twist at the end, and the effect of the mix is to force the reader to cast focus upon the bitter irony behind the words. The question implied in the words “invulnerable to pain,” for instance, is emphasized by the shift in the line’s beat, and the word “eventually,” taking the time it does to pronounce, heightens the effect of the bitter yet funny final word, “rust.”

There is real range to be found in this collection as well. On one page we encounter the tight rhymes and meters of French verse and on the next the sprung rhythms of Hopkins. A third page ventures us into the stresses and alliteration of Old English poetry. We move from tiny Dickinsonian poems to expansive ones in the style of Walt Whitman. The poem In a Forest, Near a Stream might have been sent to us from the eighteenth century. It uses classical imagery—nymphs and satyrs cavort, and “delicate hands” hold “gold-runed goblets”—and it takes place in the speaker’s dream. In fact it seems like a dream-poem in the Romantic Tradition until the spell is broken by the words “Made In Japan.” The authenticity of this vision is underscored by its free-verse spontaneity. It is a thoroughly contemporary poem in classical guise.

Another poem with this same contradictory sensibility is Sculptured Clay, which gives Shelley’s use of the invocation a run for its money before it folds in on itself, expiring with the haunting lines,

O God!

How happy

I would be

had I expired

in the womb,

before I could feed

on my mother’s milk

and gurgle with

infant joy.

This is the record of a torment that hasn’t been resolved, a suffering both heartfelt and piercing, and no criticism of word-selection or style can quiet its unnerving cry.

By Love Waylaid shows us yet another, lighter side of Bacon’s work. This isn’t a profound poem and it’s not meant to be—it uses a form that is a cross between a Shakespearean song and modern rock and roll. It’s more or less a paean to the poet’s love, but it devolves in diction to an ending that is worse than tongue-tied and yet also very funny:

Mumble-jumble, hum, hullabaloo,

ramble, prattle, drivel, ki-yoo,

burble, babble, gibber, intone,

ad-lib, hocus-pocus, and hambone.

Bacon’s poetry ranges from technical gymnastics in One Summer Morning, where the rhyme scheme is both complicated and compelling—

with ease it sped

then, descending,

it flew overhead

and passed me by.

A stone’s-throw farther

it chose to alight

upon an arbor

—to a Poe-like dreamscape in Sculptured Clay, where the speaker invokes his painful isolation as a remedy for his sorrow:

O loneliness!

My lover,

friend,

brother,

comfort me.

But it’s in the earlier mentioned poem, Tick! Tock!—one of the final poems of the collection—that to my mind the author reaches genuine poetic stature. It’s a bitterly painful poem, expressing experientially, like true poetry does, the unsolvable dilemma that a convict faces in prison. The ticking of the clock holds a horror that is right out of Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart, and the lyrical lines add rhythm and melody. The result is bitter irony, the more poignant for its being so understated. And the opening four lines—

Like an angry giant,

a solar fire-storm

hurls its heat

at our planet

—so seemingly a non-sequitur to the rest of the poem, place that poem in the oven of the cosmos, where humans are trapped and forced to suffer the wrath of uncontrollable forces. The “Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock!” of the clock as it’s “hands crawl ‘round” and “gears mesh and mock” might be the lines of a nursery-rhyme, and their playful sound counterpoints the flat description of the prison yard with its “chain-link fences—barbed and razor-wired.” The prisoner wishes for a freedom that seems to be, in the context of the ticking clock, a lifetime removed. This is a contemporary poem both in style and subject.

In fact, I think that this poem tells us a lot about where Bacon’s poetry might be heading. From his compositions we learn that he has already lived a full life, has suffered both deprivation and hard loss, and those trials will almost certainly bring continuing depth to his work. He also states, however, that this book of poems might be his last, that he might well retire from the writing of verse, which would certainly be a sad event—poems like Tick! Tock! tell us that this poet is just now tapping his potential, and has the tools to give us some very fine poetry indeed.

At best, the poems you will find here are already deeply sensitive and literate, showing both Bacon’s familiarity with form and an experiential mode of expression that is rare even among the best of the self-named poets of American graduate schools. Bacon’s work reveals an earnestness and love of language that is often not found in the classroom, as well as an originality that simply can’t be taught. The fact that he is self-taught isn’t surprising, based upon both the heights and depths of the poetry collected here. It’s also a fact he openly affirms in his Apologia, a document which, while rigorous, is also free of the overlays of the academy. I am guessing (and hoping!) that Melie Bacon’s studies with the Masters have only begun, and that we shall hear far more of his visionary verse in future works.

Thomas Nordgren, Ph.D.

Senior Lecturer (retired),

University of Wisconsin-Platteville

October, 2008

1

Proem

The Selected Poems edition—the original version of this collection—was not up to snuff when I approved the galleys, although I was too inexperienced at the time to realize it. I nevertheless regret publishing prematurely and I implore my Readers to pardon my ineptitude. However, in my defense, I began revising and enlarging same immediately after discovering an error I overlooked during the proofreading process. Much to my chagrin I had misspelled Edgar Allan Poe’s middle name, which occasioned a closer scrutiny of the entire text; resulting in this enhanced edition (a final draft as it were) two-years and six-months later. Fortunately the Apologiarequired most of my attention and only a few of the poems were tweaked.

The forty poems that comprise this collection—arranged here without respect to chronological order—were written between the years 1975-2000. I selected these particular poems on the basis of merit and variety. It is my opinion that, as far as poetry is concerned, beauty exists in brevity. There are many who share my preference for the short poem, including the illustrious Ralph Waldo Emerson who said:

“It does not need that a poem should be long.

Every word was once a poem.”

One-third of these poems are syllabic but all were written with the impunity of poetic license...in brief, I do not profess to be other than a minor talent (my ardor exceeds my ability) and while this is a modest collection for so lengthy a period of composition I daresay that it embodies the spirit of an aspiring, North American poet. I presume to know the joy and relief a mother must feel when giving birth after protracted labor.

Initially I did not plan to write a book. In fact, I discovered my penchant for poetry when writing the lyrics for songs—e.g., my first “poem” was Smile Again, the second and fifth verses are the refrain. However, encouraged by my mother and prompted by my own interest and pleasure in the work itself, I rolled up my sleeves, wet my nib, and invoked the Muses. To quote myself, the following couplet reflects my attitude toward this endeavor, which is both my debut and swansong:

“...So if you were to name it doggerel

I invite the critic to match my skill.”

Needless to say, I borrowed the title for this collection from a popular nursery rhyme...regardless of whether we are nine or ninety, there is a little child in us all and it is this childlike quality that enables us—even in this space-age of unprecedented crime, violence, and moral decay—to appreciate the beauty and balance of nature; to love and forgive our fellowman; and to adore, in awe, our benevolent Creator.

It is in this spirit that I offer youLittle Boy Blue.

Apologia

Since writing the following, an associate informed me that the Baconian Theory was conclusively disproved in 1989. However, I have yet to verify this information—which I do not contend. In fact, I would not be surprised to learn that Shakespeare is indeed the author of the works in question, for—as the Apologia will attest—this is what I have maintained all along.

Be that as it may, I chose not to delete that segment because—insofar as I am a poet with the same surname—my view of the theory is unique, and, moreover, because it establishes my objectivity. My sole regret is that I was not more prolific. The sage King Solomon counsels, “...be admonished: of making many books there is no end....” On that note I conclude my career. Easier said than done! Even now I am bewitched by the achingly-beautiful, soothingly-supernal, sad-sweet warble of my muse and my daemon insists on ink as anodyne.

With the authority of empirical knowledge—interspersed with my philosophy and opinion—I maintain that: Poetry is the one element intrinsic to all of the arts; finding outlet in music (at once the most versatile, creative, and sublime of all art forms), literature, sculpture, architecture, painting, dancing, and acting. Poetry is the vehicle that conveys expression; the apparatus that depicts and interprets the statuesque, the picturesque, and the profound. Poetry is the essence that portrays what is unique, humane, heroic, tragic, romantic, satirical, comical, spiritual, immortal, noble, and sublime. Poetry is a state of mind, and minstrel of the inner-ear, it is the intercourse of our daily lives; it extols our virtues and attributes while exhorting us to surmount and subjugate our base, counter-nature. Poetry elevates us above our mediocrity and alleviates the tedium of an otherwise humdrum existence; it is a stimulus for acquiring and imparting knowledge and culture—which excites the imagination, satisfies the senses, evokes emotion, and arouses passion—thereby broadening the scope and enriching one’s experience.

Well-crafted work is the hallmark of the dedicated artist. The difference between superlative and so-so art is the distance between a connoisseur and a dilettante. The controversy that may result from a review on an artistic endeavor is decided by the art lovers who constitute a majority, thus establishing popular consensus—which occasionally overrules the verdict of a noteworthy authority. It is the patron, then, who is the final arbiter on the quality and value of art; who pronounces the life or death sentence, as it were, on real or imagined talent.

All too often, many artists are not recognized for their contributions and achievements until after their death (the case of Vincent Van Gogh is a prime example), there are some—perhaps more than one might suspect—who are so modest as to avoid the embarrassment of recognition. In any event, this posthumous acclamation can be ascribed to the sad fact that peopleare not truly missed or fully appreciated until we are deprived of them. On the other end of the spectrum, there are mealy-mouthed wordmongers who—inasmuch as they are unable to defend their art and/or actions—are emboldened to malign the dead with innuendo and aspersion. I commend those critics who refrain from this practice; whoendeavor to render an impartial evaluation—leaving the personalities to biographers and their peccadilloes to the judgment ofa higher authority.