I chose these poems because several of my friends have said to me this week how much they enjoy the choices of poems, and a word of encouragement goes a long way.
I have chosen “Thinking” by the mysterious Walter D. Wintle, four quatrains from “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam” translated by Edward Fitzgerald and “How Did You Die?” by Edmund Vance Cooke.
Poem 115. Thinking
Life’s battles don’t always go
Walter D. Wintle (late 19th to early 20th Century)
To the stronger or faster man.
But sooner or later, the man who wins
Is the man who thinks he can.
If you think you are beaten, you are.
If you think you dare not, you don’t.
If you like to win but think you can’t,
It’s almost a cinch you won’t.
If you think you’ll lose, you’re lost.
For out in the world we find
Success begins with a fellow’s will.
It’s all in the state of mind.
If you think you are out classed, you are.
You’ve got to think high to rise.
You’ve got to be sure of yourself before
You can ever win the prize.
Life’s battles don’t always go
To the stronger or faster man.
But sooner or later, the man who wins
Is the man who thinks he can.
This poem is a testament to positive thinking. It emphasises with every line—every word, practically—that if you don’t think you can do something, you probably won’t be able to. It’s like the text of a series of motivational posters, but I like it anyway.
It is curious that so little is known of Walter Wintle that even his birth and death dates seem to be shrouded in mystery, even though he seems to be relatively contemporary. So much is known of most other poets, even those who lived in the medieval period like Chaucer, that it seems odd that a relatively modern writer should be so obscure.
Poem 116. From The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best
Omar Khayyam (1048—1131), translated by Edward Fitzgerald (1809—1883)
That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to Rest.
XX.
Ah! my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears—
To-morrow?—Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXI.
Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to Rest.
XXII.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend, ourselves to make a Couch—for whom?
XXIII.
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust Descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and—sans End!
We return to Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat and four quatrains that urge us to make the most of our lives before they come to an end, though in these lines, Khayyam (through Fitzgerald’s lovely translation) spurs us to drink and party—a far distant idea when we are scourged by a disease that thrives on social contact.
Quatrain 20 speaks of filling a cup with wine so that the drinker can forget the past and future in the heady liquor, caring nothing for the consequences since the drinker may be dead themselves: “Why, To‑morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years”.
Quatrain 21 is one of my favourites from the Rubaiyat because it expresses so simply what I feel, that many who we loved well have left us too early “And one by one crept silently to Rest”.
Quatrain 22 reminds us, like the skulls painted in many works of art, that though we make merry now we all must die in our turn, be buried and eventually make a bed for a future occupant of the graveyard.
Quatrain 23 is a commonly quoted part of the Rubaiyat and emphasises the message of the previous three stanzas. It urges us to make the most of our lives (carpe diem, as we learned back in Poet’s Day 2) before we ourselves are buried. Fitzgerald reflect the words of the burial service: “we therefore commit this body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust”. The burial service continues with the assertion that we do this in the hope of salvation; Khayyam, via Fitzgerald, seems less sure of his eternal reward: “Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and—sans End!” he laments.
Links
- Read about the Rubaiyat on Wikipedia.
Poem 117. How Did you Die?
Oh, a trouble’s a ton, or a trouble’s an ounce,
Edmund Vance Cooke (1866—1932)
Or a trouble is what you make it
Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there — that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
It's how did you fight — and why?
And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?
This poem is about facing trouble—however it comes—cheerfully and with a stout heart. It seems rather relentless in its promotion of personal mettle over emotional sensitivity but it seems well-intentioned.
I do like the phrase, “a trouble’s a ton, or a trouble’s an ounce, or a trouble is what you make it”—I find each trouble varies in magnitude depending on the amount of time one spends on it.
Ultimately, I suppose the message is: “Try your hardest, do your best, and you can’t blame yourself”.