An Account of the Poem Games

In the summer of 1916 in the parlor of Mrs. William Vaughn Moody; and in the following winter in the Chicago Little Theatre, under the auspices of Poetry, A Magazine of Verse; and in Mandel Hall, the University of Chicago, under the auspices of the Senior Class, these Poem Games were presented.  Miss Eleanor Dougherty was the dancer throughout.The entire undertaking developed through the generous cooeperation and advice of Mrs. William Vaughn Moody.  The writer is exceedingly grateful to Mrs. Moody and all concerned for making place for the idea.  Now comes the test of its vitality.  Can it go on in the absence of its initiators?

Mr. Lewellyn Jones, of the Chicago Evening Post, announced the affair as a “rhythmic picnic”.  Mr. Maurice Browne of the Chicago Little Theatre said Miss Dougherty was at the beginning of the old Greek Tragic Dance.  Somewhere between lies the accomplishment.

In the Congo volume, as is indicated in the margins, the meaning of a few of the verses is aided by chanting.  In the Poem Games the English word is still first in importance, the dancer comes second, the chanter third.  The marginal directions of King Solomon indicate the spirit in which all the pantomime was developed.  Miss Dougherty designed her own costumes, and worked out her own stage business for King Solomon, The Potatoes’ Dance, The King of Yellow Butterflies and Aladdin and the Jinn (The Congo, page 140).  In the last, “‘I am your slave,’ said the Jinn” was repeated four times at the end of each stanza.

The Poem Game idea was first indorsed in the Wellesley kindergarten, by the children.  They improvised pantomime and dance for the Potatoes’ Dance, while the writer chanted it, and while Professor Hamilton C. Macdougall of the Wellesley musical department followed on the piano the outline of the jingle.  Later Professor Macdougall very kindly wrote down his piano rendition.  A study of this transcript helps to confirm the idea that when the cadences of a bit of verse are a little exaggerated, they are tunes, yet of a truth they are tunes which can be but vaguely recorded by notation or expressed by an instrument.  The author of this book is now against instrumental music in this type of work.  It blurs the English.

Professor Macdougall has in various conversations helped the author toward a Poem Game theory.  He agrees that neither the dancing nor the chanting nor any other thing should be allowed to run away with the original intention of the words.  The chanting should not be carried to the point where it seeks to rival conventional musical composition.  The dancer should be subordinated to the natural rhythms of English speech, and not attempt to incorporate bodily all the precedents of professional dancing.

Speaking generally, poetic ideas can be conveyed word by word, faster than musical feeling.  The repetitions in the Poem Games are to keep the singing, the dancing and the ideas at one pace.  The repetitions may be varied according to the necessities of the individual dancer.  Dancing is slower than poetry and faster than music in developing the same thoughts.  In folk dances and vaudeville, the verse, music, and dancing are on so simple a basis the time elements can be easily combined.  Likewise the rhythms and the other elements.

Miss Dougherty is particularly illustrative in her pantomime, but there were many verses she looked over and rejected because they could not be rendered without blurring the original intent.  Possibly every poem in the world has its dancer somewhere waiting, who can dance but that one poem.  Certainly those poems would be most successful in games, where the tone color is so close to the meaning that any exaggeration of that color by dancing and chanting only makes the story clearer.  The writer would like to see some one try Dryden’s Alexander’s Feast, or Swinburne’s Atalanta in Calydon.  Certainly in those poems the decorative rhythm and the meaning are absolutely one.

With no dancing evolutions, the author of this book has chanted John Brown and King Solomon for the last two years for many audiences.  It took but a minute to teach the people the responses.  As a rule they had no advance notice they were going to sing.  The versifier sang the parts of the King and Queen in turn, and found each audience perfectly willing to be the oxen, the sweethearts, the swans, the sons, the shepherds, etc.

A year ago the writer had the honor of chanting for the Florence Fleming Noyes school of dancers.  In one short evening they made the first section of the Congo into an incantation, the King Solomon into an extraordinarily graceful series of tableaus, and the Potatoes’ Dance into a veritable whirlwind.  Later came the more elaborately prepared Chicago experiment.

In the King of Yellow Butterflies and the Potatoes’ Dance Miss Dougherty occupied the entire eye of the audience and interpreted, while the versifier chanted the poems as a semi-invisible orchestra, by the side of the curtain.  For Aladdin and for King Solomon Miss Dougherty and the writer divided the stage between them, but the author was little more than the orchestra.  The main intention was carried out, which was to combine the work of the dancer with the words of the production and the responses of the audience.

The present rhymer has no ambitions as a stage manager.  The Poem Game idea, in its rhythmic picnic stage, is recommended to amateurs, its further development to be on their own initiative.  Informal parties might divide into groups of dancers and groups of chanters.  The whole might be worked out in the spirit in which children play King William was King James’ Son, London Bridge, or As We Go Round the Mulberry Bush.  And the author of this book would certainly welcome the tragic dance, if Miss Dougherty will gather a company about her and go forward, using any acceptable poems, new or old.  Swinburne’s Atalanta in Calydon is perhaps the most literal and rhythmic example of the idea we have in English, though it may not be available when tried out.

The main revolution necessary for dancing improvisers, who would go a longer way with the Poem Game idea, is to shake off the Isadora Duncan and the Russian precedents for a while, and abolish the orchestra and piano, replacing all these with the natural meaning and cadences of English speech.  The work would come closer to acting, than dancing is now conceived.

The King of Yellow Butterflies

  (A Poem Game.)

The King of Yellow Butterflies, The King of Yellow Butterflies, The King of Yellow Butterflies, Now orders forth his men.  He says “The time is almost here When violets bloom again.”  Adown the road the fickle rout Goes flashing proud and bold, Adown the road the fickle rout Goes flashing proud and bold, Adown the road the fickle rout Goes flashing proud and bold, They shiver by the shallow pools, They shiver by the shallow pools, They shiver by the shallow pools, And whimper of the cold.  They drink and drink.  A frail pretense!  They love to pose and preen.  Each pool is but a looking glass, Where their sweet wings are seen.  Each pool is but a looking glass, Where their sweet wings are seen.  Each pool is but a looking glass, Where their sweet wings are seen.  Gentlemen adventurers!  Gypsies every whit!  They live on what they steal.  Their wings By briars are frayed a bit.  Their loves are light.  They have no house.  And if it rains today, They’ll climb into your cattle-shed, They’ll climb into your cattle-shed, They’ll climb into your cattle-shed, And hide them in the hay, And hide them in the hay, And hide them in the hay, And hide them in the hay.

The Potatoes’ Dance

  (A Poem Game.)

      I

  “Down cellar,” said the cricket,
  “Down cellar,” said the cricket,
  “Down cellar,” said the cricket,
  “I saw a ball last night,
  In honor of a lady,
  In honor of a lady,
  In honor of a lady,
  Whose wings were pearly-white. 
  The breath of bitter weather,
  The breath of bitter weather,
  The breath of bitter weather,
  Had smashed the cellar pane. 
  We entertained a drift of leaves,
  We entertained a drift of leaves,
  We entertained a drift of leaves,
  And then of snow and rain. 
  But we were dressed for winter,
  But we were dressed for winter,
  But we were dressed for winter,
  And loved to hear it blow
  In honor of the lady,
  In honor of the lady,
  In honor of the lady,
  Who makes potatoes grow,
  Our guest the Irish lady,
  The tiny Irish lady,
  The airy Irish lady,
  Who makes potatoes grow.

      II

  “Potatoes were the waiters,
  Potatoes were the waiters,
  Potatoes were the waiters,
  Potatoes were the band,
  Potatoes were the dancers
  Kicking up the sand,
  Kicking up the sand,
  Kicking up the sand,
  Potatoes were the dancers
  Kicking up the sand. 
  Their legs were old burnt matches,
  Their legs were old burnt matches,
  Their legs were old burnt matches,
  Their arms were just the same. 
  They jigged and whirled and scrambled,
  Jigged and whirled and scrambled,
  Jigged and whirled and scrambled,
  In honor of the dame,
  The noble Irish lady
  Who makes potatoes dance,
  The witty Irish lady,
  The saucy Irish lady,
  The laughing Irish lady
  Who makes potatoes prance.

      III

  “There was just one sweet potato. 
  He was golden brown and slim. 
  The lady loved his dancing,
  The lady loved his dancing,
  The lady loved his dancing,
  She danced all night with him,
  She danced all night with him. 
  Alas, he wasn’t Irish. 
  So when she flew away,
  They threw him in the coal-bin,
  And there he is today,
  Where they cannot hear his sighs
  And his weeping for the lady,
  The glorious Irish lady,
  The beauteous Irish lady,
  Who
  Gives
  Potatoes
  Eyes.”

The Booker Washington Trilogy

  A Memorial to Booker T. Washington

I. Simon Legree

  A Negro Sermon. (To be read in your own variety of negro dialect.)

  Legree’s big house was white and green. 
  His cotton-fields were the best to be seen. 
  He had strong horses and opulent cattle,
  And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle. 
  His garret was full of curious things: 
  Books of magic, bags of gold,
  And rabbits’ feet on long twine strings. 
  But he went down to the devil.

  Legree he sported a brass-buttoned coat,
  A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt. 
  Legree he had a beard like a goat,
  And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt. 
  His puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white,
  He had great long teeth, and an appetite. 
  He ate raw meat, ’most every meal,
  And rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal. 
  His fist was an enormous size
  To mash poor niggers that told him lies: 
  He was surely a witch-man in disguise. 
  But he went down to the devil.

  He wore hip-boots, and would wade all day
  To capture his slaves that had fled away. 
  But he went down to the devil.

  He beat poor Uncle Tom to death
  Who prayed for Legree with his last breath. 
  Then Uncle Tom to Eva flew,
  To the high sanctoriums bright and new;
  And Simon Legree stared up beneath,
  And cracked his heels, and ground his teeth: 
  And went down to the devil.

  He crossed the yard in the storm and gloom;
  He went into his grand front room. 
  He said, “I killed him, and I don’t care.” 
  He kicked a hound, he gave a swear;
  He tightened his belt, he took a lamp,
  Went down cellar to the webs and damp. 
  There in the middle of the mouldy floor
  He heaved up a slab, he found a door
  and went down to the devil.

  His lamp blew out, but his eyes burned bright. 
  Simon Legree stepped down all night
  down, down to the devil. 
  Simon Legree he reached the place,
  He saw one half of the human race,
  He saw the Devil on a wide green throne,
  Gnawing the meat from a big ham-bone,
  And he said to Mister Devil: 

   “I see that you have much to eat
   A red ham-bone is surely sweet. 
   I see that you have lion’s feet;
   I see your frame is fat and fine,
   I see you drink your poison wine
   Blood and burning turpentine.”

  And the Devil said to Simon Legree: 
   “I like your style, so wicked and free. 
   Come sit and share my throne with me,
   And let us bark and revel.” 
  And there they sit and gnash their teeth,
  And each one wears a hop-vine wreath. 
  They are matching pennies and shooting craps,
  They are playing poker and taking naps. 
  And old Legree is fat and fine: 
  He eats the fire, he drinks the wine
  Blood and burning turpentine
   down, down with the devil;
    down, down with the devil;
     down, down with the devil.

II.  John Brown

  (To be sung by a leader and chorus, the leader singing the body of the
  poem, while the chorus interrupts with the question.)

  I’ve been to Palestine. 
     What did you see in Palestine? 
  I saw the ark of Noah
  It was made of pitch and pine. 
  I saw old Father Noah
  Asleep beneath his vine. 
  I saw Shem, Ham and Japhet
  Standing in a line. 
  I saw the tower of Babel
  In the gorgeous sunrise shine
  By a weeping willow tree
  Beside the Dead Sea.

  I’ve been to Palestine. 
     What did you see in Palestine? 
  I saw abominations
  And Gadarene swine. 
  I saw the sinful Canaanites
  Upon the shewbread dine,
  And spoil the temple vessels
  And drink the temple wine. 
  I saw Lot’s wife, a pillar of salt
  Standing in the brine
  By a weeping willow tree
  Beside the Dead Sea.

  I’ve been to Palestine. 
     What did you see in Palestine? 
  Cedars on Mount Lebanon,
  Gold in Ophir’s mine,
  And a wicked generation
  Seeking for a sign
  And Baal’s howling worshippers
  Their god with leaves entwine. 
  And ... 
  I saw the war-horse ramping
  And shake his forelock fine
  By a weeping willow tree
  Beside the Dead Sea.

  I’ve been to Palestine. 
     What did you see in Palestine? 
  Old John Brown. 
  Old John Brown. 
  I saw his gracious wife
  Dressed in a homespun gown. 
  I saw his seven sons
  Before his feet bow down. 
  And he marched with his seven sons,
  His wagons and goods and guns,
  To his campfire by the sea,
  By the waves of Galilee.

  I’ve been to Palestine. 
     What did you see in Palestine? 
  I saw the harp and psalt’ry
  Played for Old John Brown. 
  I heard the ram’s horn blow,
  Blow for Old John Brown. 
  I saw the Bulls of Bashan
  They cheered for Old John Brown. 
  I saw the big Behemoth
  He cheered for Old John Brown. 
  I saw the big Leviathan
  He cheered for Old John Brown. 
  I saw the Angel Gabriel
  Great power to him assign. 
  I saw him fight the Canaanites
  And set God’s Israel free. 
  I saw him when the war was done
  In his rustic chair recline
  By his campfire by the sea,
  By the waves of Galilee.

  I’ve been to Palestine. 
     What did you see in Palestine? 
  Old John Brown. 
  Old John Brown. 
  And there he sits
  To judge the world. 
  His hunting-dogs
  At his feet are curled. 
  His eyes half-closed,
  But John Brown sees
  The ends of the earth,
  The Day of Doom. 
  And his shot-gun lies
  Across his knees
  Old John Brown,
  Old John Brown.

III.  King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba

  (A Poem Game.)

“And when the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon, ...
she came to prove him with hard questions.”

The men’s leader rises as he sees the Queen unveiling
and approaching a position that gives her half of the stage.

Men’s Leader:  The Queen of Sheba came to see King Solomon.
He bows three times.
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon.

She bows three times.
Women’s Leader:  I was the Queen,
I was the Queen,
I was the Queen.

Both Leaders:  We will be king and queen,
They stand together stretching their hands over the land.
Reigning on mountains green,
Happy and free
For ten thousand years.

They stagger forward as though carrying a yoke together.
Both Leaders:  King Solomon he had four hundred oxen.

Congregation:  We were the oxen.

Here King and Queen pause at the footlights.
Both Leaders:  You shall feel goads no more.
They walk backward, throwing off the yoke and rejoicing.
Walk dreadful roads no more,
Free from your loads
For ten thousand years.

The men’s leader goes forward, the women’s leader dances round him.
Both Leaders:  King Solomon he had four hundred sweethearts.

Here he pauses at the footlights.
Congregation:  We were the sweethearts.

He walks backward.  Both clap their hands to the measure.
Both Leaders:  You shall dance round again,
You shall dance round again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
The Queen appears to gather wildflowers.
Wildflowers be found
For ten thousand years,
Wildflowers be found
For ten thousand years.

He continues to command the congregation, the woman to dance. 
He goes forward to the footlights.
Both Leaders:  And every sweetheart had four hundred swans.

Congregation:  We were the swans.

The King walks backward.
Both Leaders:  You shall spread wings again,
You shall spread wings again,
Here a special dance, by the Queen:  swans flying in circles.
Fly in soft rings again,
Fly in soft rings again,
Swim by cool springs
For ten thousand years,
Swim by cool springs,
For ten thousand years.

The refrain “King Solomon” may be intoned by the men’s leader
whenever it is needed to enable the women’s leader to get to
her starting point.  All the refrains may be likewise used.

Men’s Leader:  King Solomon,
King Solomon.

Women’s Leader:  The Queen of Sheba asked him like a lady,
They bow to each other then give a pantomime
indicating a great rose garden.
Bowing most politely: 
“What makes the roses bloom
Over the mossy tomb,
Driving away the gloom
Ten thousand years?”

Men’s Leader:  King Solomon made answer to the lady,
They bow and confer.  The Queen reserved, but taking cognizance. 
The King wooing with ornate gestures of respect, and courtly animation.
Bowing most politely: 
“They bloom forever thinking of your beauty,
Your step so queenly and your eyes so lovely. 
These keep the roses fair,
Young and without a care,
Making so sweet the air,
Ten thousand years.”

The two, with a manner almost a cake walk, go forward.
Both Leaders:  King Solomon he had four hundred sons.

On this line, King and Queen pause before the footlights.
Congregation:  We were the sons.

Pantomime of crowning the audience.
Both Leaders:  Crowned by the throngs again,
On this line they walk backward, playing great imaginary harps.
You shall make songs again,
Singing along
For ten thousand years.

They go forward in a pony gallop, then stand pawing.
Both Leaders:  He gave each son four hundred prancing ponies.

Congregation:  We were the ponies.

They nod their heads, starting to walk backward.
Both Leaders:  You shall eat hay again,
A pony dance by both, in circles.
In forests play again,
Rampage and neigh
For ten thousand years.

Men’s Leader:  King Solomon he asked the Queen of Sheba,
They bow to each other, standing so that
each one commands half of the stage.
Bowing most politely: 
“What makes the oak-tree grow
Hardy in sun and snow,
Never by wind brought low
Ten thousand years?”

Women’s Leader:  The Queen of Sheba answered like a lady,
They bow to each other, again, with pantomime indicating a forest.
Bowing most politely: 
“It blooms forever thinking of your wisdom,
Your brave heart and the way you rule your kingdom. 
These keep the oak secure,
Weaving its leafy lure,
Dreaming by fountains pure
Ten thousand years.”

They go to the footlights with a sailor’s lurch and hitch.
Both Leaders:  The Queen of Sheba had four hundred sailors.

The King and Queen pause.
Congregation:  We were the sailors.

Both Leaders:  You shall bring spice and ore
They walk backward with slow long-armed gestures
indicating the entire horizon line.
Over the ocean’s floor,
Shipmates once more,
For ten thousand years.

Women’s Leader:  The Queen of Sheba asked him like a lady,
They bow to each other, the Queen indicating the depths of the sea.
Bowing most politely: 
“Why is the sea so deep,
What secret does it keep
While tides a-roaring leap
Ten thousand years?”

Men’s Leader:  King Solomon made answer to the lady,
They bow to each other, then confer; the Queen reserved,
but taking cognizance, the King wooing with ornate gestures
of respect and courtly admiration.
Bowing most politely: 
“My love for you is like the stormy ocean
Too deep to understand,
Bending to your command,
Bringing your ships to land
Ten thousand years.” 
King Solomon,
King Solomon.

They go to the footlights with the greatest possible strut.
Both Leaders:  King Solomon he had four hundred chieftains.

Congregation:  We were the chieftains.

The leaders stand with arms proudly folded.
Both Leaders:  You shall be proud again,
They walk backward haughtily, laughing on the last lines.
Dazzle the crowd again,
Laughing aloud
For ten thousand years.

From here on the whole production to be
much more solemn, elevated, religious.

The leaders go forward to the footlights carrying imaginary torches.
Both Leaders:  King Solomon he had four hundred shepherds.

The man and woman pause at the footlights.
Congregation:  We were the shepherds.

They wander over the stage as though looking for lost lambs,
with torches held high.
Both Leaders:  You shall have torches bright,
Watching the folds by night,
Guarding the lambs aright,
Ten thousand years.

Men’s Leader:  King Solomon he asked the Queen of Sheba,
The King kneels, and indicates the entire sky with one long slow
gesture.
Bowing most politely: 
“Why are the stars so high,
There in the velvet sky,
Rolling in rivers by,
Ten thousand years?”

Women’s Leader:  The Queen of Sheba answered like a lady,
The Queen kneels opposite the King,
and gives the same gesture as she answers.
Bowing most politely: 
“They’re singing of your kingdom to the angels,
They guide your chariot with their lamps and candles,
Therefore they burn so far
So you can drive your car
Up where the prophets are,
Ten thousand years.”

Men’s Leader:  King Solomon,
King Solomon.

Both Leaders:  King Solomon he kept the Sabbath holy.
The two stand, commanding the audience.
And spoke with tongues in prophet words so mighty
The man and woman stamp and whirl with great noise and solemnity.
We stamped and whirled and wept and shouted:

Congregation Rises and Joins the Song: 
....  “Glory.” 
We were his people.

On these two lines, man and woman stamp and whirl again,
gravely, magnificently.
Both Leaders:  You shall be wild and gay,
Green trees shall deck your way,
On these two lines they kneel, commanding the audience.
Sunday be every day,
Ten thousand years.

Now they rise and bow to each other and the audience,
maintaining a certain intention of benediction.
King Solomon,
King Solomon.

How Samson Bore Away the Gates of Gaza

(A Negro Sermon.)

  Once, in a night as black as ink,
  She drove him out when he would not drink. 
  Round the house there were men in wait
  Asleep in rows by the Gaza gate. 
  But the Holy Spirit was in this man. 
  Like a gentle wind he crept and ran. 
  ("It is midnight,” said the big town clock.)

  He lifted the gates up, post and lock. 
  The hole in the wall was high and wide
  When he bore away old Gaza’s pride
  Into the deep of the night:
  The bold Jack Johnson Israelite,
  Samson
  The Judge,
  The Nazarite.

  The air was black, like the smoke of a dragon. 
  Samson’s heart was as big as a wagon. 
  He sang like a shining golden fountain. 
  He sweated up to the top of the mountain. 
  He threw down the gates with a noise like judgment. 
  And the quails all ran with the big arousement.

  But he wept “I must not love tough queens,
  And spend on them my hard earned means. 
  I told that girl I would drink no more. 
  Therefore she drove me from her door. 
  Oh sorrow! 
  Sorrow! 
  I cannot hide. 
  Oh Lord look down from your chariot side. 
  You made me Judge, and I am not wise. 
  I am weak as a sheep for all my size.”

       Let Samson
       Be coming
       Into your mind.

  The moon shone out, the stars were gay. 
  He saw the foxes run and play. 
  He rent his garments, he rolled around
  In deep repentance on the ground.

  Then he felt a honey in his soul. 
  Grace abounding made him whole. 
  Then he saw the Lord in a chariot blue. 
  The gorgeous stallions whinnied and flew. 
  The iron wheels hummed an old hymn-tune
  And crunched in thunder over the moon. 
  And Samson shouted to the sky: 
  “My Lord, my Lord is riding high.”

  Like a steed, he pawed the gates with his hoof. 
  He rattled the gates like rocks on the roof,
  And danced in the night
  On the mountain-top,
  Danced in the deep of the night: 
  The Judge, the holy Nazarite,
  Whom ropes and chains could never bind.

       Let Samson
       Be coming
       Into your mind.

  Whirling his arms, like a top he sped. 
  His long black hair flew round his head
  Like an outstretched net of silky cord,
  Like a wheel of the chariot of the Lord.

       Let Samson
       Be coming
       Into your mind.

  Samson saw the sun anew. 
  He left the gates in the grass and dew. 
  He went to a county-seat a-nigh. 
  Found a harlot proud and high: 
  Philistine that no man could tame
  Delilah was her lady-name. 
  Oh sorrow,
  Sorrow,
  She was too wise. 
  She cut off his hair,
  She put out his eyes.

       Let Samson
       Be coming
       Into your mind.