Treasures of The Texas Collection
Texas Poetry
Script for KWBU-FM and Texas NPR Stations
By Petra Carey
HOST (Mary Landon Darden)
Famous poet W.H. Auden once said, “A poet is, before anything else, a person
who is passionately in love with language.” This love for language is evident in
all cultures—from the Greek odes to the Japanese haikus.
Even Texan writers have tipped their hats to this literary art form. Petra
Carey is here today to share some of their works with us.
Welcome, Petra. What can you tell us about Texas poets and their works?
WRITER (Petra Carey)
Thank you. I’m glad to be here. Let me begin by saying that The Texas Collection
has a vast amount of resources on Texas poetry, and we can only begin to just
scratch the surface here today.
For one, I love poetry, so this was a real treat for me to research. Now, given that
we’re discussing Texas poetry, we have to start with cowboy poetry. There’s just
no way around it.
Sounds good. Let’s do that. How did cowboy poetry find its place as a
literary art form?
Cowboy poetry started in the late 1800s around campfires during cattle drives.
The cowboys would sit around and tell stories at night to entertain one another.
Sometimes the stories were true, and sometimes they were just tales that the
cowboy had heard from someone else or just made up on the spot.
Before long, cowboys started adding rhyme and meter to their stories. Of course,
this made the stories more entertaining, but it also made them easier to remember
and retell later on down the trail. It wasn’t long before even cowgirls picked up the
skill.
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Here’s a poem by one. Her name is Linda Kirkpatrick, and it’s titled, “Cathay
Williams.”
[“Cathay Williams”]
In a tiny shotgun cabin
Martha’s baby girl was born
A baby, born to slavery
who no one could forewarn
But Cathay Williams was determined
And never was deterred
Beginning her life as a house girl
Being seen but never heard
Then the Civil War broke out
And the Union soldiers came
And taking Cathay with them
Her life would never be the same
Cathay learned the ways of military life
Became an accomplished cook
She was sent to General Sheridan
A job she proudly undertook
The Civil War ended
And Cathay was finally free
And in seeking out her freedom
She found her place in history
Her own way she wanted to make
A burden to no one be
So as a Buffalo Soldier
She joined up in the 38th U.S. Infantry
Cathay Williams became William Cathay
And no one was to know
The secret of her identity
As a soldier she did grow
The troops moved west to Ft. Cummings
To keep the Apache at bay
There were 101 enlisted men,
Among them William Cathay
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After two years as a Buffalo Soldier
In the 38th Company A
Williams went to see the doctor
And her secret came out that day
Discharged as a Buffalo Soldier
Cathay did her very best
As she continued to make her way
In this land we call the West
Because of her illegal enlistment,
Her pension passed her by
But she picked herself up
And moved on never questioning why
Life ended for Cathay Williams
At the age of eighty-two
She lived a long, independent life
A life that was tried but true
So a salute to Cathay Williams
The hero of this rhyme
A special woman of the west
And a legend in her time
Fabulous! William Cathay—or Cathay Williams, I should say—if real, was
certainly a hero (or heroine) of her time! Is this story true, Petra, or just
fiction?
This is actually a true story, Mary. At the time, slaves discovered by Union
Soldiers were considered the army’s “contraband.” Though the Emancipation
Proclamation granted slaves their freedom, many slaves remained in the Union’s
hands. The government tried to assist by creating all-black infantry and cavalries
for free black men to join. Many had served in regiments during the war, so these
were extensions of those ranks.
Cathay Williams was a house servant when Union Soldiers first found her during
an attack on her owner’s plantation. The soldiers needed a cook so they kept her
within their own ranks. Throughout the Civil War, Cathay was transferred from
battle site to battle site. Her last post was with General Phil Sheridan, for whom
she cooked and did laundry for. She picked up a skill or two with all of her time
on the front. When she found herself jobless after the war, she decided to go with
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what she knew best—serving in the military. She wanted to be able to take care of
herself, and this seemed like her best shot. She reversed her first and last name and
enlisted on November 15, 1866, with her cousin and a friend. No one ever said
anything about it.
A medical exam wasn’t required, so Cathay didn’t have to worry about that.
Standing six feet tall with a broad form, none of the other soldiers ever suspected
Cathay wasn’t anything different than what she claimed to be. Even after
contracting small pox and having to see the doctor, her cover still wasn’t blown. It
wasn’t until Cathay grew tired of serving that she started feigning sickness and
willfully disclosed her true gender. Of course she was discharged on the spot, and
the soldiers weren’t too happy when they learned they’d been duped.
Since she served illegally, she never received a pension. Fortunately, she was
resourceful and found a way to support herself by opening a boarding house. She
passed away in 1924 at the age of 82 in New Mexico.
Well, having pulled off something like that, I’d have to agree she was
“resourceful.” Let’s hear another poem.
Here’s another one by Kirkpatrick. It’s titled, “Teresita.”
[“Teresita”]
There was an uneasy tremor in the ground
She knew something was not right
Then she heard the pounding of the horses’ hooves
And slowly she stood in fright
The troops topped the ridge in the early morn
They arrived in a cloud of dust
She turned and looked for her father
The chief, a man she could trust
Her eyes sparkled like black diamonds
Her hair was like a raven’s wing
And as she stood amid the chaos
She could hear the Shaman sing
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Their homes were torched and set ablaze
Through the clouds of smoke she could hear
The sounds of the cries of the wounded
And again she gazed in fear
Costelietos was roped and drug by a horse
She ran to assist the old man
“Where is the respect?” she wanted to know,
“He is leader of the Lipan.”
They seemed not to care and they fired more shots
But soon, not another sound
With a silence so deadly and a calm so serene
The tribe was soon gathered around
Those that could walk were made to march
The others would die alone
They crossed the river then another moon more
’Twas the last time she would see her home
Teresita and her father marched like the rest,
At Ft. Clark they were entombed
They would live the life of captives
While life as a Lipan was doomed
She would later become the bride of a scout
She would ride with him each day
For freedom she did this, relinquished her dream
Oh, what a price to pay
No longer to turn as free as the breeze
No longer her soul to soar
No longer to live as a dove on the wing
No longer a life as before
To her new life she adjusted
Her new freedom she did behold
She loved her family and worked as a scout
But still longed for her life of old
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How sad! What’s the story behind this one?
Yes, this one was sad. It’s also ironic that this sad ending for Teresita and the tribe
she belonged to was the result of President Ulysses S. Grant’s peace policy of all
things. Grant met with Quakers in January of 1869 to discuss ways to best work
with the Native Americans. The policy was described as “a state of mind, a
determination that since the old ways of dealing with the Indians had not worked,
new ways, which emphasized kindness and justice, must be tried.”
The policy read well on paper, but it wasn’t successful. The Native Americans
didn’t see a need to change their customs to suit the settlers. What began in peace
ultimately ended in bloodshed when the Tenth Cavalry took over the Fort Sill
reservation.
Let’s look at the work of another Texas poet. She wasn’t a cowgirl, but she raised
quite a ruckus. Bonnie Parker from Bonnie & Clyde.
Oh, my! She was a poet?
Yes! One of her English high school teachers pointed out to Parker her gift for
poetry and writing. She was even an honor student in her day. Parker was born in
Central Texas and grew up in Dallas. She met Clyde Barrow when she was 20,
and the rest is history. One of her poems is engraved on her tombstone and reads,
As the flowers are all made sweeter: by the sunshine and the dew,
So this old world is made brighter: by the lives of folks like you.
Here’s a poem she wrote about herself and Clyde in 1934, the same year they died.
It’s titled, “The Story of Bonnie and Clyde.”
[“The Story of Bonnie and Clyde”]
You’ve read the story of Jesse James—
Of how he lived and died;
If you still are in need
Of something to read,
Here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde.
Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang,
I’m sure you all have read
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How they rob and steal
And those who squeal,
Are usually found dying or dead.
There’s lots of untruths to these write-ups;
They are not so ruthless as that;
Their nature is raw;
They hate all the law—
The stool-pigeons, spotters, and rats.
They call them as cold-blooded killers;
They say they are heartless and mean;
But I say this with pride,
That I once knew Clyde
When he was honest and upright and clean.
But the laws fooled around,
Kept talking him down,
And locking him up in a cell,
Till he said to me,
“I’ll never be free,
So I’ll meet a few of them in hell.”
The road was so dimly lighted;
There were no highway signs to guide;
But they made up their minds
If all roads were blind,
They wouldn’t give up till they died.
The road gets dimmer and dimmer;
Sometimes you can hardly see;
But it’s fight, man to man,
And do all you can,
For they know they can never be free.
From heartbreak some people have suffered;
From weariness some people have died;
But take it all and all,
Our troubles are small,
Till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.
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If a policeman is killed in Dallas,
And they have no clew to guide;
If they can’t find a fiend,
They just wipe their slate clean,
And hang it on Bonnie and Clyde.
There’s two crimes committed in America
Not accredited to the Barrow mob;
They had no hand
In the kidnap demand,
Nor the Kansas City Depot job.
A newsboy once said to his buddy;
“I wish old Clyde would get jumped;
in these awful hard times
We’d make a few dimes
If five or six cops would get bumped.”
The police haven’t got the report yet,
But Clyde called me up today;
He said, “Don’t start any fights—
We aren’t working nights—
We’re joining the NRA.”
From Irving to West Dallas viaduct
Is known as the Great Divide,
Where the women are kin,
And the men are men,
And they won’t “stool” on Bonnie and Clyde.
If they try to act like citizens,
And rent them a nice little flat,
About the third night
They’re invited to fight
By a sub-gun’s rat-tat-tat.
They don’t think they are too tough or desperate,
They know the law always wins;
They’ve been shot at before,
But they do not ignore
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That death is the wages of sin.
Some day they’ll go down together;
They’ll bury them side-by-side;
To a few it’ll be grief—
To the law a relief—
But it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.
That could be described as “prophetic” in a sense.
Indeed! They did “go down together” but are buried in different cemeteries.
Let’s keep going. Here’s an interesting poem by humorist Boyce House about
Texas poets. And rightly so, it’s titled, “Texas Poets.”
[“Texas Poets”]
You write about bluebonnets—
In a land that knew Houston, hero fit for a Greek tragedy;
And about cottages nestling in honeysuckle—
Though there is the spot that saw Goliad’s massacre;
And about white poplars marching up a hill into the sunset—
When men and women face the drouth, the sand, the wind—
and somehow smile!
Texas!
With its pirates’ gold, its cattle-trails, its gun-fighters;
Its cotton fields, cornfields, wheat fields, and oil fields;
Its lonely canyons, carved by nature, in a forgotten land,
Newsboys waving “extras,”
Wrestlers throwing each other out of rings while pale—
Countenanced clerks shriek;
Clyde and Bonnie with blazing machine guns,
Farmer Jim and Ma Ferguson,
And seven million others doing things brave, foolish, amusing
or what-have-you!
And yet, Texas poets, you swoon when you behold a dew—
Drop enfolded by a rose!
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I also have a short one by Violette Newton about Texas poetry. She wrote well
into her nineties and published a couple books of poetry. This poem is titled,
“Texas Poetry.”
[“Texas Poetry”]
Up East, they do not think much
of Texas poetry. They think Texans
have no soul for aesthetics, that all
they do is pound their own chests,
talk loud and make money.
But every time I’m nearing Austin,
I look up at a painted sign
high on the side of the highway
that says, “Bert’s Dirts”
and to pyramids of many-colored soils
sold by Bert, and I swell with pride
and point to that terse little title
and wish we could stop
so I could go in
and purchase
a spondee of sand
to make a gesture of my support
for poetry in Texas.
Poetry with a sense of humor!
Yeah. I came across that one in two resources so I had to include it.
You know, Mary, Texas’ rich culture is deeply intertwined with that of Mexico’s,
and I discovered many interesting works by Texas’ Hispanics. This first one was
written by Teresa Palomo Acosta. She’s a historian from McGregor, Tex. She
writes about the Spanish language and the blending of cultures in “Spell My
Name.” It reads:
My name is Cristina Lopez Gonzalez.
That’s Cristina without the “h”
And Gonzalez with an “s.”
(Here a shrug.)
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Yo me llamo Josefina Paulette Gomez,
And there’s an accent mark
On the “o” in Gomez
But we don’t use it
(Here a smile and a tilt of the head toward me.)
I’m Pedro. Last name Rodriguez, which is w-aay
too largo for me. But I’ll give it a try.
(Here a concentrated frown, pencil midair.)
I’m Nico—well, Nicolas;
that’s the English way of saying it.
and the Spanish way of spelling.
(Here a broad grin.)
Question: Nico, Do you like it that way?
Answer: Well, yeah.
My ‘buela insists on the Spanish version.
Question: Nico, what do you like?
(Here a shrug and a “both.”)
I mind my ‘buela. If she says it in Spanish,
I say it’s a-ok with me.
(Here a spontaneous “Nicolas”
como en Spanish.)
Here the mark of Tex-Mex is
on every tongue/lengua franca [frank].
Y no importa que digan los jefes [And it does not matter what the heads say],
who bend over the Spanish
dictionary, counting every missed syllable.
In this, Acosta points out not only the mixing of cultures but the challenge of
staying true to one while embracing another. Another Texas poet puts pen to paper
on this same subject.
“I Am a Mexican Who Looks Jewish” by Frances M. Trevino.
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I am a Mexican who looks Jewish
with orange hair
and hazel eyes
white skin—
not brown.
I am a Mexican living
In the United States—
Third generation Texan
And first generation
Not to speak
The language of my
Parents and grandparents.
I ask my mother,
After growing up with
Mariachi music,
Vicente Fernandez,
And Los Tres Panchos
In my grandmother’s
Candled house,
I ask her what music
Was her favorite?
And she replies—
“Motown.”
I realize something is lost.
And in the small
family streets of
Pharr, Tx,
My father struggles
For his college degree
And eventually embraces
Middle management,
And happily forgets
The small streets
Of Pharr and
The culture that bound him.
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No language,
No music,
No poetry,
No memory,
No Mexicans
In our house.
Despite the names
Maria, Carmen, Rosa,
Esparanza, Maragarita,
Teresa, Luis, Enrique,
Imelda, Irene, and Juan—
My father’s eleven
Brothers and sister.
But me,
I have my grandmother’s
Name, and she has her
Grandmother’s name
And I have the memories
And I was the one
In a family
Of güeras,
Born with
A brown soul.
That’s put so well. Certainly that’s an aspect of Texas history and culture.
What else did your research unearth?
Interestingly enough and to my surprise, I came across a version of Mother Goose
nursery rhymes rewritten in the Texas vernacular.
Oh, really? What did you find?
The poet is David Davis, and he certainly showed some creativity with these.
Here’s “Texas Prayer.”
By the campfire, ’bout to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
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Wake me early, wake me late,
But let me rise in the Lone Star State.
Ahh! “Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.”
Yes, and here’s a revision of “Humpty Dumpty” titled, “Breakfast with Humpty
Dumpty.”
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the ranch cowboys and all the vaqueros
Got a big breakfast of huevos rancheros.
I love it! At least a humorous and partially happy ending.
Again, there’s the mixing of the Mexican and southern culture. How about this
version of “Jack and Jill?”
Jack and Jill scurried up the hill
To drill a well for water.
Jack fell joggin’ and bumped his noggin,
And Jill came tumbling after.
Up they got and home did trot,
Rewarded for their toil:
They were coated head to toe in black,
For the children had struck oil.
Someone had to mention our black gold, right? OK, here’s one more spin, but this
one is spun from the Bible and was written by Joyce Ann Gibson Roach.
“A Psalm for Toad—West Texas”
(with apologies to King David and sundry parts of King James’ Bible)
They shall dwell in the tents of dryness and drought but for a season
Rain will surely come;
Not mercy drops, but showers of blessing,
Gully washers.
They worship in
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Brush arbor sanctuary,
Dug-out chapel,
Greasewood grove;
Under sky apse and nave,
Oil derrick steeples,
Personal vestibules the only entrances.
Every thing that has life or breath,
Goes armed, ready to fight for life—
Plants with blades and thorns,
Fences, barbed,
Animals with horn, fang, claw and hoof.
Likewise, men and women, even unto words, they go armed.
Not the chosen ones, but more the choosers,
Play their roles in
Miracle, morality, muster
Plain as the sunburned nose on a freckled face.
They see Him ride up on the prairie storm,
Appear in the burning bush, or burned up crops,
In prairie fire,
In clouds of dust, tornado or mighty winds,
In dry lightning that portends no rain.
The places of their gatherings are like the tents of Abraham,
Offering shade in a dry and thirsty land;
Where having enough saliva to spit is holy water;
Where surely the rain will come.
They abide in straight and narrow rows,
Or dwell in the midst of barbed wire.
Their doctrines are deep as chasms,
Pits for falling into,
Open as cloudless sky
Burned clean by the searing sun;
Jealous as Joseph’s brothers
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They are holy writ.
They are the words and the music.
They are the song
And the dry land pulses the rhythm that bids them dance or sing,
Beat their breasts or cry.
Thirsty religion does not always suffer long,
Is not always kind,
Is sometimes envious,
Thinks, sometimes evil,
Is easily provoked.
The sinners and saints stand upon the walls of Jerusalem
Or Chillicothe, Jacksboro, Muleshoe,
Hereford, Perryton, Albany,
Post, Crane, Mentone.
They sound the shofar or yell “yippi ti yi yo”
And square dance upon the walls.
They praise God with timbrel and trumpet,
Banjo, guitar and fiddle.
By the rivers of Babylon—or Pecos, Rio Grande,
Brazos, Nueces and Red—
they sit down and weep or laugh.
Blessed are they who cry in the West Texas wilderness,
“Prepare ye the way of the Lord,”
or for round-up;
or for sowing and reaping;
or for drilling
or for canning and preserving.
And those who say, “Make straight in the desert a highway for our God”
or the plow,
or a trail to market,
or the diamond bit.
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Hear their cries, O Lord.
Let the rains come again.
Let them dwell in the house of the Lord forever
If the rains come—
when it rains.
Well, you’ve certainly delighted us today, Petra, with this poetry, and even
brought out a little Texas history in the process! Thank you for being with us
today.
Thank you for having me, Mary.
The great state Texas flower;
Has bonnets of blue;
And The Texas Collection
Has poetry, too!
Time doesn’t allow us to cover all of the wonderful Texas poets in one sitting.
If you would like to learn more about Texas poets and their works, the Texas
Collection on Baylor campus has an enormous collection.
Join us next time for Treasures of the Texas Collection.
Property of The Texas Collection at Baylor University
Final Edit: January 9, 2010
_________________________________________________
Petra Carey, Writer
_________________________________________________
Dr. Mary Landon Darden, Executive Producer
_________________________________________________
Pattie Orr, Vice President of Information Technology and Dean of
University Libraries
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_________________________________________________
John Wilson, Associate Director of The Texas Collection
_________________________________________________
Dr. Thomas L. Charlton, Director of The Texas Collection