This week: Edgar Albert Guest Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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On Quitting
by Edgar Albert Guest
How much grit do you think you've got?
Can you quit a thing that you like a lot?
You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word,
And where'er you go it is often heard;
But can you tell to a jot or guess
Just how much courage you now possess?
You may stand to trouble and keep your grin,
But have you tackled self-discipline?
Have you ever issued commands to you
To quit the things that you like to do,
And then, when tempted and sorely swayed,
Those rigid orders have you obeyed?
Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out,
Nor prate to men of your courage stout,
For it's easy enough to retain a grin
In the face of a fight there's a chance to win,
But the sort of grit that is good to own
Is the stuff you need when you're all alone.
How much grit do you think you've got?
Can you turn from joys that you like a lot?
Have you ever tested yourself to know
How far with yourself your will can go?
If you want to know if you have grit,
Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit.
It's bully sport and it's open fight;
It will keep you busy both day and night;
For the toughest kind of a game you'll find
Is to make your body obey your mind.
And you never will know what is meant by grit
Unless there's something you've tried to quit.
On August 20 1881 in Birmingham, England, Edwin and Julia Wayne Guest welcomed their son Edgar Albert Guest into the world. The family lived in Birmingham, England until 1891, when they moved to Detroit Michigan. Shortly after the move Guest’s father lost his job and Guest started working odd jobs to help his family after school. Soon Guest was hired as a copy boy for the Detroit Free Press. His first poem appeared December 11, 1898. His father died when he was seventeen and Guest was forced to drop out of school and work full time. Guest worked his way up to reporter for Detroit Press where he stayed for almost 65 years. His weekly column, "Chaff," first appeared in 1904. The column eventually became the daily "Breakfast Table Chat," which was syndicated to over three-hundred newspapers throughout the United States.
Guest married Nellie Crossman in 1906. The couple had three children together. Guest first two books, “ Home Rhymes” and “Just Glad Things” were printed by Guest brother Harry. His poetry quickly became a hit with the Chicago firm of Reilly and Britton and they started publishing his collections which include "Just Folks" in 1917, "Over Here" in 1918, "When Day Is Done" in 1921, "The Passing Throng" in 1923. Followed by "Harbor Lights of Home" in 1928, and "Today and Tomorrow" published in 1942. In 1931 Guest hosted a weekly broadcast on NBC radio. He was part of the program until 1942. In 1951, "A Guest in Your Home" appeared on NBC TV. He published more than twenty volumes of poetry. His Collected Verse appeared in 1934 and went into at least eleven editions.
Edgar Albert Guest died on August 5, 1959. Guest was laid to rest in Detroit's Woodlawn Cemetery.
Hard Luck
by Edgar Albert Guest
Ain't no use as I can see
In sittin' underneath a tree
An' growlin' that your luck is bad,
An' that your life is extry sad;
Your life ain't sadder than your neighbor's
Nor any harder are your labors;
It rains on him the same as you,
An' he has work he hates to do;
An' he gits tired an' he gits cross,
An' he has trouble with the boss;
You take his whole life, through an' through,
Why, he's no better off than you.
If whinin' brushed the clouds away
I wouldn't have a word to say;
If it made good friends out o' foes
I'd whine a bit, too, I suppose;
But when I look around an' see
A lot o' men resemblin' me,
An' see 'em sad, an' see 'em gay
With work t' do most every day,
Some full o' fun, some bent with care,
Some havin' troubles hard to bear,
I reckon, as I count my woes,
They're 'bout what everybody knows.
The day I find a man who'll say
He's never known a rainy day,
Who'll raise his right hand up an' swear
In forty years he's had no care,
Has never had a single blow,
An' never known one touch o' woe,
Has never seen a loved one die,
Has never wept or heaved a sigh,
Has never had a plan go wrong,
But allas laughed his way along;
Then I'll sit down an' start to whine
That all the hard luck here is mine.
The Little Orphan
by Edgar Albert Guest
The crowded street his playground is, a patch of blue his sky;
A puddle in a vacant lot his sea where ships pass by:
Poor little orphan boy of five, the city smoke and grime
Taint every cooling breeze he gets throughout the summer time;
And he is just as your boy is, a child who loves to play,
Except that he is drawn and white and cannot get away.
And he would like the open fields, for often in his dreams
The angels kind bear him off to where are pleasant streams,
Where he may sail a splendid boat, sometimes he flies a kite,
Or romps beside a shepherd dog and shouts with all his might;
But when the dawn of morning comes he wakes to find once more
That what he thought were sun-kissed hills are rags upon the floor.
Then through the hot and sultry day he plays at "make-pretend,"
The alley is a sandy beach where all the rich folks send
Their little boys and girls to play, a barrel is his boat,
But, oh, the air is tifling and the dust fills up his throat;
And though he tries so very hard to play, somehow it seems
He never gets such wondrous joys as angels bring in dreams.
Poor little orphan boy of five, except that he is pale,
With sunken cheeks and hollow eyes and very wan and frail,
Just like that little boy of yours, with same desire to play,
Fond of the open fields and skies, he's built the self-same way;
But kept by fate and circumstance away from shady streams,
His only joy comes when he sleeps and angels bring him dreams.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
My mind is all empty
The crowd of emotions gone
My lonely journey to nothingness ended
As my eyes finally close
The music of an outside world
Hardly seeps through glazed glass
As thoughts of the day just gone
Fade to become memories of the past:
I am on a stage
Lit in spotlights
(Or rather profiles)
and fresnels
I have travelled miles
My mind says
But really
It wasn’t far
My mind is all empty
But filling now with dreams
My lonely journey to something beginning
As my eyes open again
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: March 25, 2020 Issue [#10090]
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