(1) ABOUT THE TIPPLER D0 N0T PUBLISH ADULT POEMS HERE.

May 4, 2014

From Jack Quinn

To: Barbara Malley

Hello again!

      I can hardly believe I only found your response to my note of 16 July 2013 today, almost 10 months after receiving it.

      Shortly after I contacted you, I went travelling in Europe and changed over to a Mac having used PCs for 25 years.  I managed, while on that steep learning curve, to inadvertently delete lots of my emails, contacts and bookmarks, one of which was your blog.  I got it back today when I performed another Google search on “The Tippler” and there it was on 16 July 2013.  And now, although outrageously late, I thank you for your very prompt reply.  I do hope you will forgive me for not getting back to you before this and allow me to press the reset button.

      I am hugely delighted on two counts.  Firstly because at last I know the name of the author of that charming little poem I committed to memory sixty-one years ago, and secondly that the author was your mother, Ernestine Cobern Beyer.  How amazing is that?  It was well worth the wait.

      It is fortuitous and entirely appropriate that we reconnect during Bealtine, the ancient Irish name for the month of May during which the month-long Bealtaine festival celebrates arts, creativity and culture in older age. The festival is coordinated by Age; Opportunity, the national organisation that inspires everyone to reach their full potential as they age.  You can it find here:

http://bealtaine.com/what-bealtaine

      I also found the Boston Globe’s report on your 90th birthday celebration. You are some gal,  if I may say so.  But I’m not all that surprised after reading your mother’s page on Wikipedia. It’s in the genes.

     Every good wish and reiterated apologies for the delay in getting back to you.

Jack  

May 22, 2014

     Are you okay?  I do hope all is well with you.

     Or was it something I said?  Or was my blog too racy for your taste? J
Just wondering. . . .
Barbara
From: Jack Quinn

May 22, 2014
Hi Barbara,

Yes, indeed, I'm okay. All's well here on this side of the Atlantic but I've had a hectic few days staying with friends and no access to my computer.

Your blog was not at all too racy for taste. Quite the contrary, I can assure you! I share your views on so many counts. I'm gradually catching up with your blog, reading a page or two every time I log on but it will take me a while as there's such a lot there! I'm so glad to have re-established contact with you. 

I trust you are in good fettle too. Stay well my new found friend,

Jack

May 22, 2014

That’s a relief, Jack!  There is indeed a lot in my blog– 527 posts, averaging at least 10 pages, so I won’t expect to hear from you day after tomorrow.

Yes, I’m in very fine fettle, just played a game of social bridge and collected $3 as high scorer.  I much prefer duplicate bridge, where you compete against all the other East-Wests or North-Souths and it isn’t a matter of pure luck if you do well.

Cheers, dear new found friend and view sharer!

Barbara

May 24, 2014

To Jack Quinn

Hi Jack, 

     I would  love to see our exchange of July 2013 if you can forward it easily.  Among the zillion things I’ve forgotten is what our connection was and who first contacted whom about what.

     Whatever the answer, I’m delighted to hear from you again.
May 24, 2014

From Jack Quinn
Hi Barbara,

     Our first contact in July 2013 is still on one of your blog pages, at least it was the last time I looked. Just in case, here it is again.
July 16, 2013 

Hello Barbara,

     Greetings from Ireland! Imagine my amazement when I found that delightful little verse,"The Tippler" on your blog page. Sixty years ago when I was about fifteen, I was hugely privileged when a sweet girl, also fifteen, shyly showed me the poem she had copied into her journal, which she had never, ever, shown to anyone else. I liked "The Tippler" then and still do now.

     Ever since, I've been trying to find out who wrote it. From time to time I tried various search engines without success - until today. I got just one positive result from my latest Google search and that directed me to your blog. And there it was. I wonder if you know who is the author or must it still be credited to "Anonymous"?

     My compliments to you on the contents of your blog. I think it is quite special.

Jack 

July 16, 2013
From Barbara Malley  

Hi there Jack Quinn,

     It was a big thrill to get your message all the way from Ireland. Posts about my mother, Ernestine Cobern Beyer, are listed to the right of my blog: Fables According to Ernestine, Playful Poems for Children, Pleasing Poems for Adults.  An account of her life, My Opera Star Mom, is also there.  

     Then there's the saga about my activity book, Poetry with a Purpose, which is available on Amazon. If you ever want to buy a book or any other Amazon product, I would be grateful if you would access Amazon on my daughter Kathie's worthwhile blog engagingpeace.com.
Happily yours,

Barbara Malley (Irish by marriage)

May 24, 2014

From Jack Quinn

     I've been working my way through your blog slowly but surely over the last few days. Some of it refers to the time before I was born; after all I'm a mere stripling of 76 years! It is a valuable historical document of not only family life, but also of the time it covers. 

     I will be out of digital circulation for the next ten days as I'm heading off to Clare Island, County Mayo for some hill-walking with Ireland's oldest hill-walking club called the Brothers of the Lug. The aforementioned Lug is an affectionate name for Lugnaquillia, the highest mountain in the province of Leinster near Dublin on the east coast of Ireland, which we climb every year. The members are a bunch of older guys like myself so we won't be under too much pressure. 

Take good care of yourself,

Jack

May 24, 2014

From Jack Quinn

Hello Kathie and Barbara,  

     Nice to meet you, Kathie, having already read about you in your mother's blog. I also have to tell you I recited your grandmother's little verse The Tippler to the owner of an apiary in Melbourne, Australia when I was there some years ago. She loved it so much that she insisted I write it in their Visitors' Book.  How about that for the ripple effect of two teenagers sharing confidences all those years ago? You may, or may not, know that bees also figure in W B Yeats's poem, The Lake Isle of Inishfree which he wrote in 1892. 

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; 

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, 

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; 

There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, 

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day 

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; 

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, 

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Must sign off now and pack my rucksack for the Clare Island trip.

Best wishes to you both,

Jack

May 24, 2014

From Kathie  

     Great to meet you, Jack.

     I absolutely love that poem. Would you be willing to submit it as a comment to my post on predators [http://engagingpeace.com/]?

     I focus on the birds rather than the bees in that post, but we do have three honeybee hives in our yard.  My feelings about all the wildlife in our yard seem to me an echo of Yeat’s feelings. 

     Or, would you give me permission to submit it as a comment for you in your name or whatever name you would like to use?

     I know many of my readers would love it too.

     Thank you for emailing me and considering this request, and most of all -- Enjoy your trip.  Kathie

May 24, 2014

To Kathie     

     The ripple effect rolls onward elegantly and awesomely.  Jack has all the desirable qualities of a special friend, does he not?  How super it will be if he appears in your post on predators.

Love,  Mom

From Kathie's blog [http://engagingpeace.com/] 
     There is another definition of predator that does not apply to the creatures playing an essential role in our ecosystem. The other definition is “a person who looks for other people in order to use, control, or harm them in some way.” Synonyms and related words include bloodsucker, exploiter, destroyer, and leech.

     Those kinds of predators–a subspecies of homo sapiens–are a threat to the balance of nature and to the survival of their own and other species. They don’t kill to eat. They kill to feed an insatiable blood lust; they glory in killing the last surviving members of other species. They rush to frack land that is not in their backyard. They lie about global warming because they dream of an iceless arctic where they can get more oil, oil, oil. They sell weapons to anyone. What do they care if children of a U.S. ghetto, let alone “foreigners” with different religions and different color skins, kill each other?

     Thankfully, there are a lot fewer human predators than there are people who love this land and seek peace and social justice for all. We who are opposed to human predators must recognize how much stronger and louder our voices could be if we united.

May 25, 2014

From Jack Quinn  

To Kathie

Subject: Tense wait for Ukraine

http://www.fba-bloggen.se/2014/05/23/tense-wait-for-ukraine/

May 25, 2014

From Kathie

To Jack Quinn

Subject: RE: Tense wait for Ukraine     

     Great article, Jack.

     And what a treat to see the photo of your son and learn a bit more about him.

     You're right. we are definitely on the same page.  A good place to be.

Best regards

Kathie

May 19, 2015
Well now Barbara,

     I think you will get a great kick out of this. Last week in Dublin I had lunch with the girl (now in her seventies) who showed me The Tippler in her autograph book over sixty years ago. She and her brother are my oldest and dearest friends.

     You can imagine her delight when I told her that it was your own dear mother, Ernestine, who was the author. Over lunch both of us recited the verse simultaneously word for word. I printed off Ernestine’s page in Wikipedia together with pages from your blog and bits of our emails and posted them to her today. She wanted the full provenance of the poem. So we have come full circle. Alas, neither she or her brother are computer literate so therefore no email either.

     I trust you are in fine health and keeping busy. Last year in May I headed to Clare Island, the seat of the O’Malley clan in Mayo, for a few days hiking with my hill walking brethren and tomorrow I go to Achill, another island in Mayo, for more of the same.

Warm regards to you, Barbara, and your daughter Kathie,

Jack

The poem that led Jack Quinn to Tears and laughter at 90. . .

The Tippler

  From the clover's convivial cavern

There issues a jovial hum

Where the bee in his velveteen tavern

Is quaffing his redolent rum.

Then tipsy with essence ecstatic

Distilled in the summery dawn,

Off on an errand erratic

                                  He reels to his wings and is gone!                                        
                                                                              Ernestine Cobern Beyer        

[1) Sunbonnet Babies is featured in Ernestine Cobern Beyer's Wikipedia biography.]

(7-17-18)  Message for readers of these poems:  I am so grateful to all of you for showing an interest in my gifted mom's poetry.  I'll be 94 on August 17th and am already in a celebrating mood, thanks to your appreciation.  With heartfelt gratitude, Barbara Malley   
                                   
                                                          Sunbonnet Babies

                                                  
                                       One wears a bonnet of organdy rose

That hides her adorable bangs,

And one wears a bonnet that shadows her nose,

And one wears a bonnet that hangs.

The first wears a pinafore (not very white!)

The second, a dress that is tidy.

But the belle of the beach is the third little mite

With the slightly inadequate didy!

                                                                   The Little Knight

Reckless, intrepid, chubby and bright,

Into the world goes the Little Knight.

And though his armor a romper be,

Never a knight more bold than he.

Soon he is lost 'twixt earth and sky--

Lost in a forest two feet high.

Over the crest of grass and weed

His hair gleams bright as a milkweed seed.

On he goes with a dauntless shout.

("Take care, little knight!" my heart cries out),

For oh, the world is alluring and new

To a brave Adventurer, just turned two.

To My Granddaughter

Kathie's eyes are bright, alive,

Her manner, blithely charming,

And though her years are only five,

Her wisdom is disarming.

When she, at times, invades my room,

I leave this peaceful place;

Astride Imagination's broom,

I soar with her in space.

Within my own she lays her hand,

And with a compass true,

She guides me to that happy land

Which long ago I knew.

Contemporaries, she and I!

For though my hair is white,

When Kathie blithely passes by,

She leaves me young and bright!

Bringing Up Mother

My children don't purposely pain me.

They mean to be patient, I know,

As gently but firmly they train me

In the way that a mother should go.

They say my illusions are many;

They smile at the things I believe.

(My reasoning process (if any),

They laughingly label naive.

Do you think I resent them?  No, never.

I accept all the training they give,

For I hope to be modern and clever

By the time that I die--if I live!

To My Reflection

The little girl you used to be,

With young, expectant face,

Has left this sober, grown-up me

In her forsaken place.

She flew away sometime o'clock

I didn't see her go.

(She left her dreams and outgrown frock--

And that is how I know.)

The Antique Collector

My chambers haven't room in 'em

For objects of aluminum,

And as for things of chromium,

No dealer dares to show me 'em.

I'm partial to old pottery

And tables that are tottery.

The practical, the usable,

To me is inexcusable.

So when you come to see me, sir,

Pray show that you esteem me, sir,

By standing as I greet yourself;

Do not unwisely seat yourself.

My chairs whose rattles, myriad,

Bespeak their price and period,

Are worth their weight in platinum--

But no one ever sat in 'em!

Polly

When Polly composes a letter

To send, in my absence, to me,

She bites on her pen as she ponders

And hopefully looks in the ink.

Her limpid gaze frequently wanders.

I think her gray matter is pink.

Her meaning is seldom explicit;

The track of her message is blurred.

But often I'm tempted to kiss it--

The footprint of each little word.

For I picture her under the skylight,

On the stool by the hearth in the den,

Her hair very gold in the twilight . . .

Solemnly smoking her pen.

Her letters are puzzling--no matter!

I care not a ghost of a jot!

Illegible may be the patter,

But the Xs that follow are not!

Efficiency Expert

Avoiding closet, shelf and drawer,

Ted hangs his wardrobe on the floor.

Next, knowing he must make his bed,

He tidily draws up the spread,

Then, heedless of the humps beneath,

He exits, whistling through his teeth.

Distracted

My vacuum-cleaner, lusty with delight,

Dines weekly with voracious appetite.

His hungry roaring fills the air with flak,

As loudly he ingests a tasty tack.

This done, he licks his chops of greedy lead

And gulps the lint and dust beneath my bed.

I'd not begrudge him his unwholesome diet,

Did he not also wolf down peace and quiet!

"Nature abhors a vacuum," I sigh,

"When I'm composing poems, so do I."

A Desperate Ode to Snow

Bees and buds and birds inspire

Arpeggios on my lyric lyre;

But snow, so pure, so fair to see,

Strikes no responsive chord in me!

No!

My heart's a sentimental thing

That simply loves to think of spring,

But snow and slush just rust its string.

It doesn't give a single ping

For snow!

Yet if I sing of spring in winter

Surely I'd confuse the printer!

Thus my cheerful lyre begins

To sing of frost and biting winds . . .

O-o-oh!

Snow make a palace of a hovel

(While you struggle with the shovel!)

Snow gems the trees and crowns the hills --

And piles up heaps of heating bills!

Snow!

Snow flutters softly in the air.

Snow hides all scars (I've read somewhere).

Snow is beautiful though clammy --

I am going to Miami!

Ho!

Snow is something to be pleased at

(Though it's often simply sneezed at!)

I love the snow!  I do, forsooth!

Expect a lyre to tell the truth?

Snow!

 Rupert Revere and the Flashlight

A flashlight, my friend, was the cause of it all.

It belonged to one Rupert Revere --

That swaggering buster whose penchant for bluster

Was known in the town, far and near.

One night, with his flashlight held tight in his hand,

He was walking with Charlie Carew,

                              When his tongue started wagging with boasting and bragging,

As only old Rupert's could do.

"The beam of my flashlight is mightily strong,"

He remarked to his buddy with pride.

"I bet I could clamber its beamstalk of amber

Clear up to the moon, if I tried!"

I dare you to do it!" cried Charlie Carew;

"Sure, a powerful flashlight is that,

But I'm doubting, old timer, you're able to climb `er

As far as the top of my hat!"

       
 "Hold the flashlight, my friend," Rupert promptly replied.

Then (remarkable though this may seem),

Revere, very solemn, grasped firmly its column, 
And started to climb up the beam!

Yes, hand over hand, like a sailor he went,

Full of courage, ambition, and hope,

And quick as you please, with the greatest of ease,

He shinnied that shimmering rope.

No doubt he'd have reached either Venus or Mars,

Little knowing for sure which was which,

But Carew got excited and over-affrighted . . .

And foggily turned off the switch!

What happened to Rupert, the brassy, the bold?

Well, it wasn't a matter for mirth.

His coattails unraveled as downward he traveled,

Heading head-first for the earth!

His end might have been quite unpleasant, no doubt,

But a happy surprise was in store,

For he landed, ka-phoom, in his very own room

And awoke seeing stars on the floor.

Not one to give up was old Rupert Revere,

Although dazed by the bump on his head.

Still filled with ambition, he made it his mission

To clamber right back into bed.

                                                      Leo Harrington

Quartet

A clamor, dour and deadly

Alarms me from my snores:

A catastrophic medley

Of alley troubadours.

On fence and roof and treetop

They lend licentious tongues

To sing the boisterous beebop

Which lacerates their lungs.

Rousing half the city

With lyrics out of tune,

They sing their lovelorn ditty

Beneath a wincing moon.

The minstrels, gray and shabby,

Conclude their serenade,

Each summoning his tabby

With tonsils passion-frayed.

Then starkly silhouetted

Against dyspeptic day,

A fresco, lean and fretted,

Steals silently away.

How I Met Pat

The day that I borrowed her Buick from Myrt

I had some tough luck, but I didn't get hurt . . .

Though I might have got into a rather bad jam

If I'd not been the wonderful driver I am.

First of all:  Myrt's garage was a pretty tight fit,

And in backing, I bent the car's fender a bit.

Next, turning a corner a little mite wide,

I saw that my car was about to collide

With a far bigger car, so I slammed on the brake--

Which proves I'm resourceful and smart and awake.

The other car's driver, becoming unnerved,

Blew out a rear tire as he slithered and swerved.

But in spite of his adjectives, temper, and noise,

I straightened my hat with my usual poise;

Then loosing the brake, I continued ahead

Till I came to a light that was just turning red.

Thinking fast, I decided the best thing to do

Was to step on the pedal and hurry on through.

Well, that's when the fuss and excitement began!

I knocked a man down--oh, the best-looking man!

This was the morning's most scary mishap.

I didn't exactly run over the chap,

But I have to admit I so narrowly missed him,

It frightened the poise right out of my system.

So kneeling beside him, I--I--well, I kissed 'im!

A second went by, maybe six, maybe seven,

        Then, "Begorry!" he said, "Sure, I've gone straight to heaven!"

O, handsome and bold was his Irishman's face,

And his voice scattered shamrocks all over the place.

Since then, for I love him a very great deal,

When we go for a ride I let Pat take the wheel.

Not that I'm not a fine driver!  Not that!

   But: "You're better at kissin' than drivin'!" says Pat.

(2) THEIR VANISHED LAUGHTER LINGERS IN MY HEART

These verses by Ernestine, my mom, are in a jumbled order, but does that matter?  I choose to think not.  I have omitted any that have been published in my memoir, The Path Through the Generations.

Lesson in Spring

Who places credence in the tomb

And bows too long in grief,

Must argue with the clover-bloom

And contradict the leaf.

Captured Music

Breaking upon the shore, the bright waves leap

And play until the ebb-tide backward wells,

Leaving the lonely sand in silence, deep,

Save for the captured music of the shells.

Thus long ago, my children came to me,

And stayed until life bade them to depart,

Yet still upon the sands of memory

Their vanished laughter lingers in my heart.

In Memoriam

Here lies my friend.  Be kind to her, oh sun.

Be gentle to her, earth; protect her, trees.

Let there be space in heaven where she may run,

This little dog who only lived to please.

The Canvas

This canvas, Life, on which I work,

I cannot leave, I dare not shirk,

For someone cries:  "It is your lot

To finish what I finished not!"

With brushes dipped in dreams and fire

I labor for a vanished sire!

When I would make a fair design,

Pure of hue and true of line,

The Past draws near and jars my hand.

O, why I cannot understand.

Yet once upon a morning, dim,

I heard the wings of seraphim.

An unseen hand propelled my own,

And on my canvas wonder shone!

Another's wisdom guided me,

And I was more than I could be!

My children!  You who from my toil

Shall take the brushes and the oil,

O, make the colors fair and pure,

That where I failed, you may endure.

Whispering Leaves

The night is trembling with the summer stir

Of wind that whispers in the beach and fir.

From every bough the wistful whisper grieves

Or dreams aloud in syllables of leaves.

The wind remembers well.  All Time is in its sigh

Grave Homer speaks as lightly it goes by;

And Sappho sings . . . I wonder if my grief

Will one day be the whisper of a leaf.

The Dryad

In every old and weathered tree

(So ancient myths declare)

A dryad sings incessantly,

Forever young and fair.

So, even so, long years depart

And bowed by them am I;

Yet sings a dryad in my heart

And will until I die.

The Tree of Heaven

(an Easter Ballad)

The trees flung up their branches

And in the dark they cried:

On one of us long, long ago,

The Lord was crucified!"

A weeping sapling murmured:

"Alas, how can I grow?

On one of us the Savior died.

I would I did not know!"

Then lo, as darkness vanished

And dawn came up like flame,

A Voice consoled the forest

And comforted its shame.

"Blame not, O trees, your brother,

For this I say to you:

The tree that was to be the cross

Knew not for what it grew.

"It loved the sun, the starlight;

It sheltered nesting birds.

Its boughs were stirred with music,

It sang with leaves for words.

"Then came that grievous morning --

The day men did the Wrong.

They stripped me of my garments,

The tree, of leaf and song.

"I died.  I rose to heaven

Where cherubim shone bright

And stood in dazzled wonder

Before the Glory Light.

"And while the angels gathered

To welcome me and sing,

I bade the tree to Paradise

And God's eternal spring:

"Beneath its boughs the cherubs

New-come to Heaven play

Until their eyes, grown stronger,

Can bear the Glory Ray.

"So harken, tossing branches!

Let every tree adore

The Cross that is the symbol

Of love forevermore."

Then cried the little sapling:

"Sing out that all is well.

Ye twinkle-footed rivers,

Run `round the earth and tell.

"Rejoice, rejoice, my brothers!

Come praise with windy lute

The Tree that bore the Savior.

(O blest and piteous fruit!)

Praise, praise the Tree of Heaven,

Nor let one leaf be mute!"

The Pool

Upon this pool are mirrored leaf and frond.

The stars so wan, so luminous and high

Look calmly down upon the pensive pond

Whereon their shadows tremulously lie.

My dazzled eyes are thrilled and wonder-caught

As silently earth's fairest troth is wrought:

The mystic marriage of the pool and sky.

Why came I to this water, silver-blue,

Which gleams with beauty borrowed from afar?

I came . . . I came in restless search of you --

Only to find how close to me you are!

As pool and heaven meet though worlds apart,

We meet, for on the waters of my heart

Your image lies as on the pool, the star.

The dusk grows deeper.  Daylight's eyelids close.

A bird unseen begins his evening hymn.

Compatible to hues of gold and rose,

The pool is filled with brightness to its brim.

And now as twilight fades and night appears,

I feel you near and kneel to lave my tears

In chaliced starlight at the water's rim.

Deep darkness grows.  I turn at last to leave,

Pursued by memories I can't forget.

I do not stay to meditate or grieve.

I am at peace although my eyes are wet.

For I have learned that like the pool am I--

The pool which faithful to the distant sky,

Still glows with gold although the sun has set.

"The Pool" won first prize from The National Penwomen's Association for the best religious poem.