Poets’ Corner- The Mad Hatter 15^th Century France’s Francois Villon Whether They Claim Him Or Not

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Once a long time ago an old communist I do not remember which version of the creed he adhered to, although he had had some impressive documented revolutionary credentials in Germany before Hitler pulled the hammer down in 1933 and he just barely got out into American exile by a very long and circuitous route, told me that as far as culture affairs, you know art, novels, music and what I want to talk about here, poetry, is basically subject to whatever personal whims a person may have on these matters. The caveat to all this is that both creators and admirers should be left to their own devises except if they are actively engaged with counter-revolutionary activity. Now that I think about it he probably got the idea from Leon Trotsky himself who wrote about such matters in the 1920s in books like  Literature and Revolution although I am sure that he did not consider himself a follower of that great revolutionary who was exiled in the late 1920s.

The point today is that if a left-wing political activist like myself, say, were very interested in the poetry of Emily Dickerson or Wallace Stevens or Thomas Mann or Edna Saint Vincent Millay then what of it. Except those kinds of poets do not “speak” to me. Poets like Allan Ginsberg burning the pages with his negro streets, his clamoring against the industrial complex, his angel hipsters, his chanting against the fate of the best minds of his generation, the gangster-poet Gregory Corso blazing the hot streets with his words and taking no prisoners, old Rimbaud with his mad ravings, Verlaine too, Genet with his black soul they “speak” to me. The troubadours, the “bad boys and girls,” the waifs, the gangsters, the drifters, grifters and midnight sifters and those who act as muses for the fallen are what makes me sit up and listen.                  

 And that brings us to Francois Villon, the “max daddy” of bad boy poets (and brigands) from the 15^th century. Strangely while I have picked up on most of my favorite poets from some academic setting I learned of Villon from two maybe unusual sources. First from the 1930s film The Petrified Forest where the Bette Davis character, Gabby, was crazy for the Villon book of poems sent from her returned to home mother in France. More importantly the poet and what he stood for was brought up in the film in conversation with Leslie Howard’s character Alan who was a Villon-like misplaced out of sorts wanderer out in the Arizona desert. The other source was a poem by Villon used as a front-piece of an article by Hunter S. Thompson who used the sentiment expressed by Villon where he considered himself a stranger in his own country (as did Thompson back in Nixon times in America).

But back to the muses, back to the gangsta muses (sorry hip-hop nation for stealing your thunder but your sing-song lyrics definitely make me think you have drawn from the same well, the same Villon well, especially guys like Biggie, Tupac, 50 cent, and Brother Cole, a brother from the same damn “sew those worn-out pants” projects neighborhood in spirit as me). Old Villon must have gotten tripped up on his DNA finding the back streets of Paris and later exile spots more attractive than the court life, the scholar’s. Trouble followed the guy wherever he moved (granted he had little room to maneuver in those days since he was a city man and not some outlaw Robin Hood working the old rural pastures and forests). His poetry speaks of drunken sots, of quick upstairs flights with besotten wenches, of tavern dark corners to plan, plan the next caper, or the next poem to explain away his life led.         

Yes, wanderers, waifs, strangers in a strange land, those are the poets I want to read and listen to. And what of it.   

Ballade: Epistre

 

Have pity now, have pity now on me,

If you at least would, friends of mine.

I’m in the depths, not holly or may,

In exile, where I’ve been consigned

By Fortune, as God too has designed.

Girls, lovers, youngsters, fresh to hand,

Dancers, tumblers that leap like lambs,

Agile as arrows, like shots from a cannon,

Throats tinkling, clear as bells on rams,

Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?

 

Singers, singing in lawless freedom,

Jokers, pleasant in word and deed,

Run free of false gold, alloy, come,

Men of wit – somewhat deaf indeed –

Hurry, be quick now, he’s dying poor man.

Makers of lays, motets and rondeaux,

Will you bring him warmth when he’s down below?

No lightning or storm reach where he’s gone.

With these thick walls they’ve blinded him so.

Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?

 

Come see him here, in his piteous plight,

Noblemen, free of tax and tithe,

Holding nothing by king or emperor’s right,

But by grace of the God of Paradise.

Sundays and Tuesdays he fasts and sighs,

His teeth are as sharp as the rats’ below,

After dry bread, and no gateaux,

Water for soup that floats his guts along.

With no table or chair, he’s lying low.

Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?