Script for KWBU-FM and Texas NPR Stations

Texas Poetry

Script for KWBU-FM and Texas NPR Stations

By Petra Carey

HOST (Mary Landon Darden)

Famous poet W.H. Auden once said, “A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.” This love for language is evident in all cultures—from the Greek odes to the Japanese haikus.

Even Texan writers have tipped their hats to this literary art form. Petra Carey is here today to share some of their works with us.

Welcome, Petra. What can you tell us about Texas poets and their works?

WRITER (Petra Carey)

Thank you. I’m glad to be here. Let me begin by saying that The Texas Collection has a vast amount of resources on Texas poetry, and we can only begin to just scratch the surface here today.

For one, I love poetry, so this was a real treat for me to research. Now, given that we’re discussing Texas poetry, we have to start with cowboy poetry. There’s just no way around it.

Sounds good. Let’s do that. How did cowboy poetry find its place as a literary art form?

Cowboy poetry started in the late 1800s around campfires during cattle drives. The cowboys would sit around and tell stories at night to entertain one another. Sometimes the stories were true, and sometimes they were just tales that the cowboy had heard from someone else or just made up on the spot.

Before long, cowboys started adding rhyme and meter to their stories. Of course, this made the stories more entertaining, but it also made them easier to remember and retell later on down the trail. It wasn’t long before even cowgirls picked up the skill.

Here’s a poem by one. Her name is Linda Kirkpatrick, and it’s titled, “Cathay Williams.”

[“Cathay Williams”]

In a tiny shotgun cabin

Martha’s baby girl was born

A baby, born to slavery

who no one could forewarn

But Cathay Williams was determined

And never was deterred

Beginning her life as a house girl

Being seen but never heard

Then the Civil War broke out

And the Union soldiers came

And taking Cathay with them

Her life would never be the same

Cathay learned the ways of military life

Became an accomplished cook

She was sent to General Sheridan

A job she proudly undertook

The Civil War ended

And Cathay was finally free

And in seeking out her freedom

She found her place in history

Her own way she wanted to make

A burden to no one be

So as a Buffalo Soldier

She joined up in the 38th U.S. Infantry

Cathay Williams became William Cathay

And no one was to know

The secret of her identity

As a soldier she did grow

The troops moved west to Ft. Cummings

To keep the Apache at bay

There were 101 enlisted men,

Among them William Cathay

After two years as a Buffalo Soldier

In the 38th Company A

Williams went to see the doctor

And her secret came out that day

Discharged as a Buffalo Soldier

Cathay did her very best

As she continued to make her way

In this land we call the West

Because of her illegal enlistment,

Her pension passed her by

But she picked herself up

And moved on never questioning why

Life ended for Cathay Williams

At the age of eighty-two

She lived a long, independent life

A life that was tried but true

So a salute to Cathay Williams

The hero of this rhyme

A special woman of the west

And a legend in her time

Fabulous! William Cathay—or Cathay Williams, I should say—if real, was certainly a hero (or heroine) of her time! Is this story true, Petra, or just fiction?

This is actually a true story, Mary. At the time, slaves discovered by Union Soldiers were considered the army’s “contraband.” Though the Emancipation Proclamation granted slaves their freedom, many slaves remained in the Union’s hands. The government tried to assist by creating all-black infantry and cavalries for free black men to join. Many had served in regiments during the war, so these were extensions of those ranks.

Cathay Williams was a house servant when Union Soldiers first found her during an attack on her owner’s plantation. The soldiers needed a cook so they kept her within their own ranks. Throughout the Civil War, Cathay was transferred from battle site to battle site. Her last post was with General Phil Sheridan, for whom she cooked and did laundry for. She picked up a skill or two with all of her time on the front. When she found herself jobless after the war, she decided to go with what she knew best—serving in the military. She wanted to be able to take care of herself, and this seemed like her best shot. She reversed her first and last name and enlisted on November 15, 1866, with her cousin and a friend. No one ever said anything about it.

A medical exam wasn’t required, so Cathay didn’t have to worry about that. Standing six feet tall with a broad form, none of the other soldiers ever suspected Cathay wasn’t anything different than what she claimed to be. Even after contracting small pox and having to see the doctor, her cover still wasn’t blown. It wasn’t until Cathay grew tired of serving that she started feigning sickness and willfully disclosed her true gender. Of course she was discharged on the spot, and the soldiers weren’t too happy when they learned they’d been duped.

Since she served illegally, she never received a pension. Fortunately, she was resourceful and found a way to support herself by opening a boarding house. She passed away in 1924 at the age of 82 in New Mexico.

Well, having pulled off something like that, I’d have to agree she was “resourceful.” Let’s hear another poem.

Here’s another one by Kirkpatrick. It’stitled, “Teresita.”

[“Teresita”]

There was an uneasy tremor in the ground

She knew something was not right

Then she heard the pounding of the horses’ hooves

And slowly she stood in fright

The troops topped the ridge in the early morn

They arrived in a cloud of dust

She turned and looked for her father

The chief, a man she could trust

Her eyes sparkled like black diamonds

Her hair was like a raven’s wing

And as she stood amid the chaos

She could hear the Shaman sing

Their homes were torched and set ablaze

Through the clouds of smoke she could hear

The sounds of the cries of the wounded

And again she gazed in fear

Costelietos was roped and drug by a horse

She ran to assist the old man

“Where is the respect?” she wanted to know,

“He is leader of the Lipan.”

They seemed not to care and they fired more shots

But soon, not another sound

With a silence so deadly and a calm so serene

The tribe was soon gathered around

Those that could walk were made to march

The others would die alone

They crossed the river then another moon more

’Twas the last time she would see her home

Teresita and her father marched like the rest,

At Ft. Clark they were entombed

They would live the life of captives

While life as a Lipan was doomed

She would later become the bride of a scout

She would ride with him each day

For freedom she did this, relinquished her dream

Oh, what a price to pay

No longer to turn as free as the breeze

No longer her soul to soar

No longer to live as a dove on the wing

No longer a life as before

To her new life she adjusted

Her new freedom she did behold

She loved her family and worked as a scout

But still longed for her life of old

How sad! What’s the story behind this one?

Yes, this one was sad. It’s also ironic that this sad ending for Teresita and the tribe she belonged to was the result of President Ulysses S. Grant’s peace policy of all things. Grant met with Quakers in January of 1869 to discuss ways to best work with the Native Americans. The policy was described as “a state of mind, a determination that since the old ways of dealing with the Indians had not worked, new ways, which emphasized kindness and justice, must be tried.”

The policy read well on paper, but it wasn’t successful. The Native Americans didn’t see a need to change their customs to suit the settlers. What began in peace ultimately ended in bloodshed when the Tenth Cavalry took over the Fort Sill reservation.

Let’s look at the work of another Texas poet. She wasn’t a cowgirl, but she raised quite a ruckus. Bonnie Parker from Bonnie & Clyde.

Oh, my! She was a poet?

Yes! One of her English high school teachers pointed out to Parker her gift for poetry and writing. She was even an honor student in her day. Parker was born in Central Texas and grew up in Dallas. She met Clyde Barrow when she was 20, and the rest is history. One of her poems is engraved on her tombstone and reads,

As the flowers are all made sweeter: by the sunshine and the dew,
So this old world is made brighter: by the lives of folks like you.

Here’s a poem she wrote about herself and Clyde in 1934, the same year they died. It’s titled, “The Story of Bonnie and Clyde.”

[“The Story of Bonnie and Clyde”]

You’ve read the story of Jesse James—

Of how he lived and died;

If you still are in need

Of something to read,

Here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang,

I’m sure you all have read

How they rob and steal

And those who squeal,

Are usually found dying or dead.

There’s lots of untruths to these write-ups;

They are not so ruthless as that;

Their nature is raw;

They hate all the law—

The stool-pigeons, spotters, and rats.

They call them as cold-blooded killers;

They say they are heartless and mean;

But I say this with pride,

That I once knew Clyde

When he was honest and upright and clean.

But the laws fooled around,

Kept talking him down,

And locking him up in a cell,

Till he said to me,

“I’ll never be free,

So I’ll meet a few of them in hell.”

The road was so dimly lighted;

There were no highway signs to guide;

But they made up their minds

If all roads were blind,

They wouldn’t give up till they died.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer;

Sometimes you can hardly see;

But it’s fight, man to man,

And do all you can,

For they know they can never be free.

From heartbreak some people have suffered;

From weariness some people have died;

But take it all and all,

Our troubles are small,

Till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.

If a policeman is killed in Dallas,

And they have no clew to guide;

If they can’t find a fiend,

They just wipe their slate clean,

And hang it on Bonnie and Clyde.

There’s two crimes committed in America

Not accredited to the Barrow mob;

They had no hand

In the kidnap demand,

Nor the Kansas City Depot job.

A newsboy once said to his buddy;

“I wish old Clyde would get jumped;

in these awful hard times

We’d make a few dimes

If five or six cops would get bumped.”

The police haven’t got the report yet,

But Clyde called me up today;

He said, “Don’t start any fights—

We aren’t working nights—

We’re joining the NRA.”

From Irving to West Dallas viaduct

Is known as the Great Divide,

Where the women are kin,

And the men are men,

And they won’t “stool” on Bonnie and Clyde.

If they try to act like citizens,

And rent them a nice little flat,

About the third night

They’re invited to fight

By a sub-gun’s rat-tat-tat.

They don’t think they are too tough or desperate,

They know the law always wins;

They’ve been shot at before,

But they do not ignore

That death is the wages of sin.

Some day they’ll go down together;

They’ll bury them side-by-side;

To a few it’ll be grief—

To the law a relief—

But it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.

That could be described as “prophetic” in a sense.

Indeed! They did “go down together” but are buried in different cemeteries.

Let’s keep going. Here’s an interesting poem by humorist Boyce House about Texas poets. And rightly so, it’s titled, “Texas Poets.”

[“Texas Poets”]

You write about bluebonnets—

In a land that knew Houston, hero fit for a Greek tragedy;

And about cottages nestling in honeysuckle—

Though there is the spot that saw Goliad’s massacre;

And about white poplars marching up a hill into the sunset—

When men and women face the drouth, the sand, the wind—

and somehow smile!

Texas!

With its pirates’ gold, its cattle-trails, its gun-fighters;

Its cotton fields, cornfields, wheat fields, and oil fields;

Its lonely canyons, carved by nature, in a forgotten land,

Newsboys waving “extras,”

Wrestlers throwing each other out of rings while pale—

Countenanced clerks shriek;

Clyde and Bonnie with blazing machine guns,

Farmer Jim and Ma Ferguson,

And seven million others doing things brave, foolish, amusing

or what-have-you!

And yet, Texas poets, you swoon when you behold a dew—

Drop enfolded by a rose!

I also have a short one by Violette Newton about Texas poetry. She wrote well into her nineties and published a couple books of poetry. This poem is titled, “Texas Poetry.”

[“Texas Poetry”]

Up East, they do not think much

of Texas poetry. They think Texans

have no soul for aesthetics, that all

they do is pound their own chests,

talk loud and make money.

But every time I’m nearing Austin,

I look up at a painted sign

high on the side of the highway

that says, “Bert’s Dirts”

and to pyramids of many-colored soils

sold by Bert, and I swell with pride

and point to that terse little title

and wish we could stop

so I could go in

and purchase

a spondee of sand

to make a gesture of my support

for poetry in Texas.

Poetry with a sense of humor!

Yeah. I came across that one in two resources so I had to include it.

You know, Mary, Texas’ rich culture is deeply intertwined with that of Mexico’s, and I discovered many interesting works by Texas’ Hispanics. This first one was written by Teresa Palomo Acosta. She’s a historian from McGregor, Tex. She writes about the Spanish language and the blending of cultures in “Spell My Name.” It reads:

My name is Cristina Lopez Gonzalez.

That’s Cristina without the “h”

And Gonzalez with an “s.”

(Here a shrug.)

Yo me llamo Josefina Paulette Gomez,

And there’s an accent mark

On the “o” in Gomez

But we don’t use it

(Here a smile and a tilt of the head toward me.)

I’m Pedro. Last name Rodriguez, which is w-aay

too largo for me. But I’ll give it a try.

(Here a concentrated frown, pencil midair.)

I’m Nico—well, Nicolas;

that’s the English way of saying it.

and the Spanish way of spelling.

(Here a broad grin.)

Question: Nico, Do you like it that way?

Answer: Well, yeah.

My ‘buela insists on the Spanish version.

Question: Nico, what do you like?

(Here a shrug and a “both.”)

I mind my ‘buela. If she says it in Spanish,

I say it’s a-ok with me.

(Here a spontaneous “Nicolas”

como en Spanish.)

Here the mark of Tex-Mex is

on every tongue/lengua franca[frank].

Y no importa que digan los jefes[And it does not matter what the heads say],

who bend over the Spanish

dictionary, counting every missed syllable.

In this, Acosta points out not only the mixing of cultures but the challenge of staying true to one while embracing another. Another Texas poet puts pen to paper on this same subject.

“I Am a Mexican Who Looks Jewish” by Frances M. Trevino.

I am a Mexican who looks Jewish

with orange hair

and hazel eyes

white skin—

not brown.

I am a Mexican living

In the United States—

Third generation Texan

And first generation

Not to speak

The language of my

Parents and grandparents.

I ask my mother,

After growing up with