Welcome to the 14th Podcast of 2023. It is now July, dry for some but such abstinence or even temperance is not to be found in the bounds of this Letter from Quotidia- or indeed in its author who struggled manfully through the last podcast process battling a respiratory illness-dragon that my wife labelled as merely a man-flu.

Which leads me to the song I am re-recording, I’m Supposed To Be. I addressed the background to it in Letters from Quotidia Episode 33: Four years in the heat of North Queensland and I was slowly going troppo. Outward trappings of success, a commission to write a musical play put on in the local commercial theatre, confident and assured as the head of English at a pleasant school, and I was sinking. Friends and acquaintances, family, excursions to the Whitsunday Islands, fishing trips and holidays on Magnetic Island- none of these rescued me from a melancholic miasma of weary wondering what’s it all about?

I was approaching my mid-forties, within the zone for an occurrence of the mid-life crisis, although empirical research has found no evidence for it and questions its validity as a human condition. So, sorry guys, just say to your wife that you’re buying that sports car because you’re a selfish sod and be done with it! I wasn’t really happy with the version I recorded back then so I have decided that an acoustic-only version of the song, at a slightly slower pace, is what is needed.

To help set the scene, I’ll re-visit two valued poets I have referred to elsewhere in my Letters, Amy Lowell, and Edwin Arlington Robinson. Like black ice/Scrolled over with unintelligible patterns/by an ignorant skater/Is the dulled surface of my heart.//This gem, Middle Age, by Amy Lowell, written in the second decade of the 20th Century, neatly describes how middle-aged me felt at that time in the tropical heat- and also four years later writing the song, as I was trying to get a toehold in the Sydney property market and carrying debts that nearly crushed me.

Discontent is woven into the human condition, is it not? Edwin Arlington Robinson, whose parents had wanted a girl and held off naming him for six months, wrote about a man uncomfortable in his skin in one of his best-known poems, published back in the year 1910, Miniver-Cheevy, Miniver cursed the commonplace/And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;/He missed the mediæval grace/Of iron clothing./Miniver Cheevy, born too late,/Scratched his head and kept on thinking;/Miniver coughed, and called it fate,/And kept on drinking. Well, 30 years down the track and no longer middle-aged, I’ll admit to scratching my head from time to time as I keep on drinking. Here is the re-recorded song, I’m Supposed to Be: [insert song]

Now, I can’t leave this part of the post without recounting a couple of anecdotes concerning Robinson which are greatly amusing, to me at least. And thanks to the site Poetry Foundation for this information: According to scholar Robert Gilbert, all his life Robinson strenuously objected to free verse, replying once when asked if he wrote it, No, I write badly enough as it is. A critic found Robinson’s tone not sunny enough, writing, “the world is not beautiful to [Robinson], but a prison-house.” To which he responded, “I am sorry that I have painted myself in such lugubrious colours, The world is not a prison house, but a kind of spiritual kindergarten, where millions of bewildered infants are trying to spell God with the wrong blocks.”

I also admire his old man in the poem John Evereldown who refuses to stay by the safety of the fire, saying in the final verse, God knows if I pray to be done with it all/But God’s no friend of John Evereldown./So the clouds may come and the rain may fall,/the shadows may creep and the dead men crawl,—/But I follow the women wherever they call,/And that’s why I’m going to Tilbury Town. Let us leave the environs of Tilbury Town, now, with the proviso that we will return to it towards the end of the post.

The beauty of the morning at dawn as light spreads across the sky gives rise to feelings of optimism as a rule. Why this may be is, perhaps, covered by the pathetic fallacy where felicities in nature give rise to feelings within that all is well with the world. The islands off the west coast of Ireland have become refuges of those pushed to the edge of the world. The Connemara Cradle Song is a lullaby where a mother croons to her infant child and prays for the safe return of her husband from the night seas where he fishes for herring.

Some sources have attributed the lyrics to Irish singer and collector Delia Murphy who recorded on 78 rpm records in the 1930s, 40s and 50s. Her last recording was an LP, The Queen of Connemara in 1962. The song has been recorded by numerous artists over the decades. With my version I have sought to keep instrumentation to a minimum. Traditionally, lullabies should be sung unaccompanied in 3/4 or 6/8 time rocking between the tonic and dominant, but I would not wish to inflict my unadorned voice on the tender ears of my listeners. Think of the song, perhaps, as a soothing filling between the rather more astringent slices that make up the song-sandwich of this podcast. Here is, The Connemara Cradle Song: [insert song]  

A couple of podcasts ago I featured a Tang Dynasty poet Du Fu who wrote a short poem about the fleeting contentment of sharing drinks with an old friend. At the risk of being labelled a running dog of the Chinese regime, may I cite yet another poet of the Middle Kingdom? This time it’s Lu Yu, a 12th Century poet who, according to Britannica online, gained renown for his simple, direct expression and his attention to realistic detail which set him apart from the elevated and allusive style of the prevailing school of poetry. Well, give me simple and direct anytime.

Here is his poem, Written in a Carefree Mood, translated by sinologist Burton Dewitt Watson: Old man pushing seventy,/In truth he acts like a little boy,/Whooping with delight when he spies some mountain fruits,/Laughing with joy, tagging after village mummers;/With the others having fun stacking tiles to make a pagoda,/Standing alone staring at his image in the jardinière pool./Tucked under his arm, a battered book to read,/Just like the time he first set out to school.

This fine reflection on life finds an echo in a 19th Century poem, Nature, by American poet William Wadsworth Longfellow. As a fond mother, when the day is o’er,/Leads by the hand her little child to bed,/ Half willing, half reluctant to be led,/And leave his broken playthings on the floor,/Still gazing at them through the open door,/ Nor wholly reassured and comforted/By promises of others in their stead,/Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;/So Nature deals with us, and takes away/ Our playthings one by one, and by the hand/Leads us to rest so gently, that we go/Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,/Being too full of sleep to understand/How far the unknown transcends the what we know. Also, simple, direct, and profound as I hope I have demonstrated elsewhere in the Letters.  

And simple and direct is this from The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes, one of the leaders of the Harlem Renaissance who writes about one of the glories of American culture- the blues- which I have revered since my mid-teens. In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone/I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—/”Ain’t got nobody in all this world,/Ain’t got nobody but ma self/.I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’/And put ma troubles on the shelf.”//Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor./He played a few chords then he sang some more—/ “I got the Weary Blues/And I can’t be satisfied./Got the Weary Blues/And can’t be satisfied—/ I ain’t happy no mo’/ And I wish that I had died.”/And far into the night he crooned that tune./The stars went out and so did the moon./The singer stopped playing and went to bed/While the Weary Blues echoed through his head./He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead// And now, as promised, we’re back in Tilbury Town, [insert song]

All  too soon it’s over, and as the final half-dozen podcasts hove into view, I’m enjoying the sunny days and crisp nights of winter in Sydney’s outer west. Enjoy your slice of the world, too.  

I’m Supposed To Be (music and lyrics by Quentin Bega)

I am a middle-aged man with both my parents gone

And my firstborn son he lies in the ground

I am a pillar of strength or I’m supposed to be

For my family they all look to me

To provide the material goods that keep them in the race

The lower middle-class is a frightening place

When there’s no way up that I can see but the way on down

Keeps on beckoning to nowhere town

Sometimes I get drunk and I howl like a dog

Sometimes I am aching with fear

At times I don’t know how I’m going to go on

I don’t know how to go on

But I am a middle-aged man with responsibilities

Although the point of this keeps eluding me

Read the new-age pundits read my stars sometimes

Scratch my head sometimes I’m still on the line

Between a birth and death that makes no sense to me

No one can show to me a larger mystery

Yet at the office I am still a force to be reckoned with

They don’t cross me if they know what’s good for them

Sometimes I get drunk and I howl like a dog

Sometimes I am aching with fear

At times I don’t know how I’m going to go on

I don’t know how to go on (instrumental verse and chorus)

I am a middle-aged man with both my parents gone

And my firstborn son he lies in the ground

I am a pillar of strength or I’m supposed to be-

Sometimes I get drunk and I howl like a dog

Sometimes I am aching with fear

At times I don’t know how I’m going to go on

I don’t know how to go on- But I go on

The Connemara Cradle Song (trad)

On the wings of the wind o’er the dark rolling deep
Angels are coming to watch o’er thy sleep
Angels are coming to watch over thee
So list to the wind coming over the sea

Hear the wind blow love, hear the wind blow
Lean your head over and hear the wind blow

Oh, winds of the night, may your fury be crossed,
May no one who’s dear to our island be lost
Blow the winds gently, calm be the foam
Shine the light brightly and guide them back home

Hear the wind blow love, hear the wind blow
Lean your head over and hear the wind blow

 
The currachs are sailing way out on the blue
Laden with herring of silvery hue
Silver the herring and silver the sea
And soon there’ll be silver for baby and me

Hear the wind blow love, hear the wind blow
Lean your head over and hear the wind blow
 
The currachs tomorrow will stand on the shore
And daddy goes sailing, a sailing no more
The nets will be drying, the nets heaven-blessed
And safe in my arms dear, contented he’ll rest.

Tilbury Town. (music Quentin Bega, lyrics Quentin Bega and E A Robinson)

I’m going to Tilbury Town to mingle with the women there racing around

Don’t ask my age or means or purpose what I intend to do with my purchase

I could have stayed by the fire smoking dreaming dozing the hot ash poking

Why should I wait for someone to ask me for a song or tune or joke to task me

I want to be free to follow the breeze where ‘ere the will o’ the wisp takes me

Free to be stupid, freedom to fail, stand at the crossroads, wonder who will [be next to] forsake me

God knows if I pray to be done with it all

But God’s no friend of me- you can write that down

So the clouds may come and the rain may fall,

The shadows may creep and the dead men crawl,—

But I follow the women wherever they call,

And that’s why I’m going to Tilbury Town.

I’m going to Tilbury Town to mingle with the women there racing around

Don’t ask my age or means or purpose what I intend to do with my purchase

I could have stayed by the fire smoking dreaming dozing the hot ash poking

Why should I wait for someone to ask me for a song or tune or joke to task me

I want to be free to follow the breeze where ‘ere the will o’ the wisp takes me

Free to be stupid, freedom to fail, stand at the crossroads, wonder who will [be next] to forsake me

So I am going to Tilbury Town, you know I am going to Tilbury Town

Oh, yes I am going to Tilbury Town

Credits: All written text, song lyrics andmusic (including background music) written and composed by Quentin Bega unless otherwise specified in the credits section after individual posts. Illustrative excerpts from other texts identified clearly within each podcast. I donate to and use Wikipedia frequently as one of the saner sources of information on the web.

Technical Stuff: Microphone- Shure SM58; (for the podcast spoken content) Audio Technica AT 2020 front-facing with pop filter); Apogee 76K also used for songs and spoken text. For recording and mixing down: 64-bit N-Track Studio 9 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2023 combo for music composition.