Poets’ Corner- The Mad Hatter 15th 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 15th 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.
Who knows what makes a man or woman
a stranger in their own land, an internal exile. Maybe like Villon it was his
dismissal of the vanities of court life, the vacuity of the student life, or
the lure of the outlaw life when bourgeois society (and France in the 15th
century was reaping the beggar’s banquet of bourgeois society) and it took no
Karl Marx to notice that the old ways had to give way to the new city ways with
their gold and death to free spirits, to those who lived outside allegiances.
Maybe like Ginsberg shattered by the smoke of downtown Paterson, maybe
shattered by the hysterical cries of his beloved if discarded mother, maybe
shattered by the square-ness of his father-poet. Maybe like Jean bon Genet born
of some ancient mix of the crime that dared not speak its name and crimes that
had names. Trolling waterfronts looking for rough trade, looking for his lady
of the flowers. Strangers, strangers all looking for some new Algiers, some new
Casablanca, some new city a-borning.
Yes, wanderers, waifs, strangers in
a strange land, those are the poets I want to read and listen to. And what of
it.
Ballade: Du Concours De Blois
Hot as fire, and with chattering teeth:
In my own land, I’m in a far domain:
Near the flame, I shiver beyond belief:
Bare as a worm, dressed in a furry sheathe,
I smile in tears, wait without expectation:
Taking my comfort in sad desperation:
I rejoice, without pleasures, never a one:
Strong I am, without power or persuasion,
Welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone.
Nothing is sure for me but what’s uncertain:
Obscure, whatever is plainly clear to see:
I’ve no doubt, except of everything certain:
Science is what happens accidentally:
I win it all, yet a loser I’m bound to be:
Saying: ‘God give you good even!’ at dawn,
I greatly fear I’m falling, when lying down:
I’ve plenty, yet I’ve not one possession,
I wait to inherit, yet I’m no heir I own,
Welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone.
I never take care, yet I’ve taken great pain
To acquire some goods, but have none by me:
Who’s nice to me is one I hate: it’s plain,
And who speaks truth deals with me most falsely:
He’s my friend who can make me believe
A white swan is the blackest crow I’ve known:
Who thinks he’s power to help me, does me harm:
Lies, truth, to me are all one under the sun:
I remember all, have the wisdom of a stone,
Welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone.
Merciful Prince, may it please you that I’ve shown
There’s much I know, yet without sense or reason:
I’m partial, yet I hold with all men, in common.
What more can I do? Redeem what I’ve in pawn,
Welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone.
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