Home

So I’m moving out of the place I’ve been living for 13 years and as I’m finding myself getting sentimental digging through stuff in closets that I haven’t seen in years, and noticing marks on the walls made by my son when he was probably five or six, Edward Guest’s poem “Home” pops into my head.

Is this style of poetry dead today? I’m very taken by the beauty of this poem and even more impressed by its style. This is a very skillfully written poem. Yet if Guest was alive today (this was written in 1916) and sent this to a literary journal, the editors would reject it after reading no further than the first stanza, once they saw that it rhymed and, perhaps worse for Guest, had a very clear message, as opposed to more abstract free verse.

Am I wrong?

Home
by Edgar Guest

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home,
A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam
Afore ye really ‘preciate the things ye lef’ behind,
An’ hunger fer ‘em somehow, with ‘em allus on yer mind.
It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be,
How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury;
I ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.

Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it;
Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then
Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part
With anything they ever used – they’ve grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumb marks on the door.

Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh
An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh;
An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come,
An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled,
an’ leave her sweet voice dumb.
Fer these are scenes that grip the heart,
an’ when yer tears are dried,
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified;
An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories
O’ her that was an’ is no more – ye can’t escape from these.

Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,
An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ‘em each day;
Even the roses ‘round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they ‘come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear
Who used t’ love ‘em long ago, an’ trained ‘em jes’ t’ run
The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun;
Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome:
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.

Hi Rainey,

You’re right. This poem would be rejected out-of-hand by any “serious” poetry journal. I think that too many people read Kipling or Service, or both. Also, much of our teaching of poetry stressed rhyming as an absolute necessity and so almost all ‘amateur’ poetry rhymes, and this means it must be… well, amateur and not to be taken seriously.

As for the content, very nice. Far too many people live in houses, and never experience a “home”.

Is nostalgia getting to you? :wink:

Yeah the content’s nice but I just love the style. It looks easy. Maybe Guest really spoke like this, I don’t know. But words like “gradjerly” and “shadder” give this just the right tone and I am thinking this was not in reality an easy poem to write. But it could not, it seems to me, be effectively written any other way.

Yeah, the language is part of the charm… I’ve written a couple of pieces in western redneck, but Tabula wouldn’t approve, so I sort of let it go… But it isn’t as easy as it looks if you’re trying to talk to all audiences…

Rhyme is God.

It would get tossed, for the structure, and the content - too sickly sentimental for current tastes. As an antiquated piece, it can be accepted and (nostalgicly) approved of. Like Bambi. But put it head to head with the Incredibles and it would get laughed out of the theatre.

Its not all that tight in the rhyming either.

year by year
…someone dear

don’t quite make it for example. The syllable per line count seems to match, which is good. But the vernacular used is not consistant:

For example - Is far too well pronounced - I’d have said:

wrapp’t roun’ ev’rything

anyway - bedtime.

Have a good move Rainey.

Rainey,

See what I mean? He’s a tough sell.

Oh Tabula is allus meticalus.
To the point of mebbe ridacalus
If it don’ alliterate,
It be the subject of hate,
And agin’ the law of fastidinus.

Tentative his retorts doth sieve
with jabs and jibes doth unjustly rib
poor Tabula the bent and bowed
his grammatic dogma disallowed.
Intolerant of arrhythmic sleaze
Tab stamps it out like some disease.

I don’t know, Tab. It needs work. It isn’t sing-songy enough. If it doesn’t have that soap commercial jingle effect it won’t sell. :stuck_out_tongue:

Do I hear a hint of sarcasm? tsk tsk…

Hey there lil’ lady
Y’know whatchoo need today…?
A good ol’ dose o’ my ryhmin’ stick
whate’er those heathens say.

Oh yessir let me tellya,
iffit don’t rhyme, well it aint spit,
Backwards, sideways or upside down
it’s still just a witch’s tit.

So you go careful wummun,
and heed an old man’s words
you go writin’ that free-verse shit
and yer voice won’t ne’er be heard.

Yee-hah!!!