EDWARD LEAR NOTEBOOK (with special reference to the limericks) :: [by Anthony Madrid]

1.

A word on the phrase “nonsense poetry.” I am uneasy about it. I know the term nonsense was Lear’s own preferred expression for his la-la, but I think the designation has outlived its goodness. I don’t actually know whatall it meant in the nineteenth century, but today it is only used for toothless things, things empty of all pathos. Which is no way to talk about the author of “The Owl and the Pussycat.”

 

To designate Lear’s poems in general and his limericks in particular, I wish to advance a new term: perversities. If people started talking about Lear’s “perversities” rather than his “nonsense,” I think many younger poets might find their way to Lear sooner. Which could save us. For perversity is sexy, and Lear was a genius.

2.

With regard to the limericks, a real stumbling block has always been the way the final lines tend to substantially repeat the initial ones. This “doubling back” device kept me from appreciating Lear’s limericks until I was in my 30s. The effect is, admittedly, one of Supreme Boneheadedness:

 

There was an Old Man of Dunluce,

Who went out to sea on a goose;

When he’d gone out a mile, he observed with a smile,

“It is time to go back to Dunluce.”

 

•

 

There was an Old Man of the Hague,

Whose ideas were excessively vague.

He built a balloon to examine the moon,

That deluded old man of the Hague.

 

•

 

There was an Old Person of Chili,

Whose behavior was painful and silly.

He sat on the stairs eating apples and pears,

That imprudent old person of Chili.

 

That last item also reveals another aspect of these pieces that might easily be interpreted in a sinister sense. I’m referring to the mispronunciation and misspelling of “Chile.” This effect is rife throughout the limericks, and is never more apparent than when Lear indulges the weird British habit of appending retroflexes to proper nouns ending in “a.” (It is this practice that results in the BBC’s constantly reporting on the activities of President O’Bomber.) Observe:

 

There was an Old Man of Calcutta,

Who perpetually ate bread and butter . . .

 

There was a Young Lady of Russia,

Who screamed so that no one could hush her . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Apulia,

Whose conduct was very peculiar; . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Jamaica,

Who suddenly married a Quaker; . . .

 

—and so on.

 

But, again, these things are part of why it would be better to call these poems Lear’s perversities. Granted, not everything in these poems is deliberate and/or effective, but I am going to suggest that both the ‘r’ endings and the relentlessly pointless last lines have a rightness of their own, if they are properly understood. The poems channel the mad energy of that skit Albert Brooks did on TV a million years ago, where he appeared onstage with a ventriloquist’s dummy and babbled away happily in dialogue with it, without doing anything to veil the fact that he was the source of the dummy’s speech. This of course defeats the “point” of ventriloquism, and so the deliciousness turned on his seeming unawareness of the fact. Likewise, everything in a limerick seems to promise a poppin’, jollygood, witty-as-hell last line—which is “brainlessly” withheld:

 

There was a Young Lady of Portugal,

Whose ideas were excessively nautical:

She climbed up a tree to examine the sea,

But declared she would never leave Portugal.

•

 

There was an Old Man in a boat,

Who said, “I’m afloat! I’m afloat!”

When they said “No you ain’t,” he was ready to faint,

That unhappy old man in a boat.

 

 

 

3.

But perhaps one wishes to see clear evidence of Lear’s strength as a versifier. It is here I play my ace. Check out the relationship Lear engineers between the first and second lines of the limericks. Over and over, the second line is racier. The effect is like that of speeding up a film of an already galloping horse.*

* Students are not expected to read all of the following examples.

  

 

There was a Young Lady whose chin

Resembled the point of a pin; . . .

 

There was an Old Person of Basing,

Whose presence of mind was amazing; . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Quebec,—

A beetle ran over his neck; . . .

 

There was a Young Lady of Norway,

Who casually sat in a doorway; . . .

 

There was an Old Person of Tring,

Who embellished his nose with a ring; . . .

 

There was an Old Man of the Dee,

Who was sadly annoyed by a Flea; . . .

 

There was an Old Person of Dutton,

Whose head was as small as a button; . . .

 

There was an Old Person of Rheims,

Who was troubled with horrible dreams; . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Berlin,

Whose form was uncommonly thin; . . .

 

There was an Old Person of Ems,

Who casually fell in the Thames; . . .

 

There was an Old Lady of Prague,

Whose language was horribly vague; . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Dundee,

Who frequented the top of a tree; . . .

 

There was a Young Lady of Poole,

Whose soup was excessively cool; . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Cape Horn,

Who wished he had never been born; . . .

 

There was an Old Man in a casement,

Who held up his hands in amazement; . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Peru,

Who never knew what he should do; . . .

 

There was a Young Lady whose eyes

Were unique as to color and size; . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Thermopylœ,

Who never did anything properly; . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Hong Kong,

Who never did anything wrong; . . .

 

There was an Old Person of Fife,

Who was greatly disgusted with life; . . .

 

There was a Young Person in green,

Who seldom was fit to be seen; . . .

 

There was an Old Man who screamed out

Whenever they knocked him about: . . .

 

There was an Old Person of Brigg,

Who purchased no end of a wig; . . .    

 

There was an Old Person of Cassel,

Whose nose finished off in a tassel; . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Ibreem,

Who suddenly threaten’d to scream: . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Dumblane,

Who greatly resembled a crane; . . .

 

There was an Old Person of Sark,

Who made an unpleasant remark; . . .

 

There was a Young Person of Ayr,

Whose head was remarkably square: . . .

 

There was a Young Person whose history

Was always considered a mystery; . . .

 

There was a Young Lady of Firle,

Whose hair was addicted to curl; . . .

 

There was an Old Man of Toulouse,

Who purchased a new pair of shoes; . . .    

 

I detect two important factors in speeding up the second lines. The more obvious is that Lear tends to install in his second line either {trisyllabic words} or {runs of monosyllables that spill off the tongue because the vowel quantities involved are so tiny}. For example, look at the {it is just as} here:

 

there WAS an old MAN with a BEARD

who SAID it’z jst’z i FEARED

 

The other factor is harder to spot. Perhaps I am its discoverer. It has to do with the fact that every single Lear limerick begins with “There was a” or “There was an.” Now, placing the ictus on was is unnatural, and creates a ritualized microawkwardness, one that is immediately “relieved” by the smoothness and whippy-quickness of the line that follows. This effect is perhaps clearest in cases where the second line includes a contrastingly unstressed “was,” like this:

 

There was an Old Person of Pett,

Who was partly consumed by regret; . . .

 

There was an Old Person of Ealing,

Who was wholly devoid of good feeling; . . .

 

And if anyone doubts that this effect is a piece of deliberate cunning on Lear’s part, that person should reflect on the fact that Lear could easily have replaced any instance of {There was a} with {There once was a}, simply by scissoring out the word “old” or “young” from the line—e.g. “There once was a man with a beard” instead of “There was an old man with a beard.” But Lear never does this. More than two hundred limericks, and not one begins with “There once was a.”

 

 

4.

I have said Lear is imperfect. It’s true. I think any poet who succumbs to these pieces as I have will find many lines that cry out for adjustment. I have begun the process in my own copy of touching up botched lines, and simply striking out whole poems that seem hopeless to me. Everything else—I’m committing to memory.

 

The labor of rewriting has yielded some remarkable feelings of virtue. The sense of impersonal blacksmithing, the desire to make a shoe that will perfectly fit the horse I have before me, the knowledge I shall receive no thanks while at the same time knowing my work would be approved by any competent blacksmith—all this has put me back in touch with my medieval roots.

 

Just a couple samples, to show you how humble is my labor:

 

BEFORE:

 

There was an old man of Peru

Who watched his wife making a stew;

But once, by mistake, in a stove she did bake

That unfortunate man of Peru.

 

AFTER:

 

There was an old man of Peru

Who watched his wife making a stew;

But once, by mistake, she attempted to bake

That unfortunate man of Peru.

 

•

 

BEFORE:

 

There was an Old Man in a barge,

Whose nose was exceedingly large;

But in fishing by night, it supported a light,

Which helped that old man in a barge.

 

AFTER:

 

There was an Old Man in a barge,

Whose nose was exceedingly large;

But in fishing by night, it supported a light,

Which assisted that man in a barge.

(Ed note: Anthony Madrid lives in Chicago.  His first book, I AM YOUR SLAVE NOW DO WHAT I SAY,(Canarium) was published in March. Read Michael Robbins' interview with Anthony here. If you are in NYC, you can attend Anthony's reading with Susan Wheeler and Michael Robbins on Wednesday, October 24, at 7:30 pm.  Poets House, 10 River Terrace NY, NY.  Details here. )

Comments

[Terence Winch]

Great piece. Of course, if you're from New York, and no doubt other places, Calcutta/ butter/ Jamaica/Quaker, etc. rhyme very nicely. I studied long ago with Elizabeth Sewell who wrote an excellent book called The Field of Nonsense, long o.p. but worth hunting down.

[Nadya]

Anthony asked me to post this here for people's convenience... It's the Albert Brooks routine. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_J43bcbIzfI

[Marissa Despain]

Hmmm. There is a significant difference in meaning between "in a stove she did bake" and "attempted to bake." In the former she succeeds, but does she in the latter?

Thank you for showing us how these rhymes work. I have a new appreciation for Edward "the King (of limericks)" Lear.