A Man's A Man For A' That!

When Marash Girl was attending Third Grade at Claflin School in Newtonville, Miss Griffin (Marash Girl's third greade teacher) required each student to memorize and recite a poem in front the class weekly. One of the poems that Marash Girl's dad insisted she memorize for the class, a poem that has influenced her approach to life to this day, is the the poem printed below. Although Marash Girl can no longer recite the poem, she was readily able to find it on the internet. Hope it's not too heavy for the season! Here goes . .. A Man’s a Man for a’ That by Robert Burns Is there for honest poverty That hings his head, an’ a’ that; The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that. Our toils obscure an’ a’ that, The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The Man’s the gowd for a’ that. What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; A Man’s a Man for a’ that: For a’ that, and a’ that, Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that; The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor, Is king o’ men for a’ that. Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord, Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that, Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, He’s but a coof for a’ that. For a’ that, an’ a’ that, His ribband, star, an’ a’ that, The man o’ independent mind, He looks an’ laughs at a’ that. A Prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that! But an honest man’s aboon his might – Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that, Their dignities, an’ a’ that, The pith o’ Sense an’ pride o’ Worth Are higher rank than a’ that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a’ that, That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth Shall bear the gree an’ a’ that. For a’ that, an’ a’ that, It’s comin yet for a’ that, That Man to Man the warld o’er Shall brithers be for a’ that. N.B. It is interesting to note that Marash Girl's dad's best friend, Rev. Ian MacDonald, was born in Scotland.

A SPECIAL POEM FROM A SPECIAL POET

https://poetryandplaces.com/2021/02/07/wambaw-creek-by-krikor-der-hohannesian/ Be sure to copy this link and enjoy the poem entitled Wambaw Creek!!! Marash Girl promises you . . . you won't be sorry!!!

"Something there is that doesn't love a wall . . ." or a fence!!!

With Marash Girl's appreciation (and thanks) to poet Robert Frost! Photo Taken in Newton Corner by Marash Girl

The Old Chestnut Tree

On Wednesday, Marash Girl woke up remembering the big old chestnut tree that stood proudly on the corner of Otis Street and Kimball Terrace, in the corner of Mr. Parker's yard.  (Mr. Parker was the orchestra leader in the elementary schools of Newton, Massachusetts, when Marash Girl was in elementary school.  For 7 years, Marash Girl had walked home from the Old Claflin School in Newtonville Square, walking up Otis Street, past that big old chestnut tree.  She loved to pause in the fall and fill her pockets with the beautiful, shiny smooth (though inedible) brightly brown chestnuts that the tree offered to the world around it. This tree was even more significant in Marash Girl's life because of the the poem that Marash Girl's father had her memorize  in third grade (scroll down to see the full text of THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH).  So first thing Wednesday afternoon, Marash Boy and Marash Girl drove over to Newtonville Square, to see if the tree was still there, and as they took a right onto Otis Street, Marash Girl held her breath.  Where was that old chestnut tree?  Marash Girl can't even type the answer, she's so sad about its loss!!!!  A piece of her childhood has gone missing.

The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Remembering With Thanks The Poem That Dad Made Marash Girl Learn In 3rd Grade

The message still as clear as day!  How this poem shaped Marash Girl's philosophy of life.

 For a' That and a' That

BY ROBERT BURNS

Is there, for honest poverty,

         That hings his head, an' a' that?

The coward slave, we pass him by,

         We dare be poor for a' that!

                For a' that, an' a' that,

                        Our toils obscure, an' a' that;

                The rank is but the guinea's stamp;

                        The man's the gowd for a' that,

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,

         Wear hoddin-gray, an' a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,

         A man's a man for a' that.

                For a' that, an' a' that,

                        Their tinsel show an' a' that;

                The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,

                        Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord

         Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;

Tho' hundreds worship at his word,

         He's but a coof for a' that:

                For a' that, an' a' that,

                        His riband, star, an' a' that,

                The man o' independent mind,

                        He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,

         A marquis, duke, an' a' that;

But an honest man's aboon his might,

         Guid faith he mauna fa' that!

                For a' that, an' a' that,

                        Their dignities, an' a' that,

                The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,

                        Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

         As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,

         May bear the gree, an' a' that.

                For a' that, an' a' that,

                        It's coming yet, for a' that,

                That man to man, the warld o'er,

                        Shall brothers be for a' that.

We miss you, Grandpa Peter!!!!

Remembering Grandpa Peter, born in Marash, Eastern Anatolia, in August of 1912, he attended Watertown, MA, Public Schools.  His favorite poem, a poem he referred to often, a poem which embodies his philosophy of life, is copied below.  Oh, how we miss you, Grandpa Peter!!!

The House by the Side of the Road

by Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911)

There are hermit
souls that live withdrawn
In the peace of their self-content;
There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran;-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house
by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner’s seat,
Or hurl the cynic’s ban;-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house
by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears-
Both parts of an infinite plan;-
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened
meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my
house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish- so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat
Or hurl the cynic’s ban?-
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

One of Marash Girl's Favorite Poems . . .One Poem Left from the Old Days

When I Was One-and-Twenty

                          by A.E HOUSMAN                

When I was one-and-twentyI heard a wise man say,

“Give crowns and pounds and guineas

       But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies

       But keep your fancy free.”

But I was one-and-twenty,

       No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty

       I heard him say again,

“The heart out of the bosom

       Was never given in vain;

’Tis paid with sighs a plenty

       And sold for endless rue.”

And I am two-and-twenty,

       And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

"Something there is that doesn't love a wall!"

Today, the Boston Globe reported:

"Trump to order border wall Wednesday"

President Donald Trump will order the construction of a Mexican border wall on Wednesday, White House officials said. He is also mulling plans to stop Syrian refugees from entering the country and to slash immigration of refugees from “terror prone” nations, perhaps as early as this week."

Marash Girl asks that Mr Trump please take the time to read below Robert Frost's poem, which Marash Girl takes the liberty of reprinting here.

Mending Wall

Robert Frost, 1874 - 1963

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

The work of hunters is another thing:

I have come after them and made repair

Where they have left not one stone on a stone,

But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,

To please the yelping dogs.  The gaps I mean,

No one has seen them made or heard them made,

But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line

And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

We have to use a spell to make them balance:

‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,

One on a side.  It comes to little more:

There where it is we do not need the wall:

He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

My apple trees will never get across

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.'

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

If I could put a notion in his head:

'Why do they make good neighbors?  Isn’t it

Where there are cows?  But here there are no cows.

Before I built a wall I’d ask to know

What I was walling in or walling out,

And to whom I was like to give offense.

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,

That wants it down.'  I could say ‘Elves’ to him,

But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather

He said it for himself.  I see him there

Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top

In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me,

Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

He will not go behind his father’s saying,

And he likes having thought of it so well

He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.'

Thank you, Robert Frost, for the above reminder!

HInts for a Happy Marriage from Kahlil Gibran and Mother Goose

“Let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together, yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.”  ― Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Above is one of Marash Girl's favorite passages and perhaps the secret to a long and happy marriage and a long and happy family life (yes, it goes for parents and children too!)

Granted the metaphor Marash Girl offers below is somewhat of a reach, and this may be considered sacrilege, but didn't Mother Goose say it first ?

Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,

and doesn't know where to find them;

leave them alone, and they'll come home,

wagging their tails behind them.


Well, you get the point.

The Ugliest Word in the English Language

Remembering a film she watched in her high school English class,  Marash Girl would like to share with you the words of Carl Sandburg:

"What is the ugliest word in the English language?"

"Exclusive!"

Marash Girl would agree!  Would you?

Remembering Grandma Jennie on Mother's Day and always!

As Marash Girl looked at the first bloom to appear on one of the three lilac bushes gifted by her children and planted for her on Mother's Day several years ago -- gifted because of Marash Girl's memories of her mother Jennie entering the house with a joyous smile and arms laden with lilacs she had just gathered from the bushes beside the porch at the family homestead on Lowell Avenue -- Grandma Jennie, who always had a smile, never a negative word, always out there seeking to help, sweet and courageous -- courageous in her outreach to people who were in trouble, to families that needed resettlement in a new country, to folks who needed a home, a house, a community . . . and courageous in her outreach to women who were in trouble.

One memory in particular comes to mind. . .

Jennie had taken to protecting a young woman who was in an abusive relationship -- Jennie found the young woman a job, a place to stay, and provided the young woman with rides to the grocery store whenever the young woman needed to go shopping.

On one unforgettable trip to the grocery store, Jennie and her protegee were getting into the car after grocery shopping at First National Parking  in Newtonville, when two thugs approached (presumably following the orders of Jennie's protegee's abusive husband)  and grabbed Jennie's car keys out of her hand.  Jennie, Marash Girl's mom, simply slammed her car door shut, shouted to her protégée to jump into the car, locked the car, and pulled out a second set of keys . . . "You think I'm a fool?" she laughed back at the men as she gunned the engine and roared out of the parking lot, leaving the oafs in the dust, standing and staring after her, open-mouthed.

Jennie kissed him!

"My name is Jennie, with an ie at the end, NOT a y at the end like the gas station," she said with a twinkle in her eye! 

Peter loved his Jennie (with an ie), and loved to recite the poem below for his Jennie (Lucille Mae) Vartanian Bilezikian; he always recited it with an ie, of course, so Marash Girl will take editorial liberty here to do the same, recording below James Henry Leigh Hunt's poem in memory of Peter and Jennie's love.

Jennie Kissed Me

Jennie kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in;

Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in!

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me,

Say I'm growing old, but add,

Jennie kissed me. 

James Henry Leigh Hunt

AULD LANG SYNE: Robert Burns Reminds Us to Remember

Traditionally sung on New Year's Eve, Robert Burns' Auld Lang Syne reminds us to remember, and we remember by singing on New Year's Eve (if not every day of our lives) . . . we remember all the people who have been a part of our lives,  all the men and women, young and old, who have made us who we are, all the folks who have left us. And so, if we were asleep when the New Year rang in, let us sing this morning, and remember . . .

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,  we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

  

 Please feel free to memorialize in the comments below the folks you remember on this day.

N.B. Robert Burns was Peter Bilezikian's Favorite Poet.

SWEET ARMENIAN WINE - ANOUSH KINI - Երգ Խնճոյքի

I'm allergic to wine, all wine, even hard liquor.  So when my relatives said they were serving wine for dinner, I cautioned them. Don't put out a glass for me!  I'll just sneeze!  No matter. They were gracious hosts and did place a wine glass in front of  me, telling me that their father had made the wine himself in the 1970's, when he was in his 70's.  Well, this I had to try.  Out came a quart sized green glass 7-Up bottle (from the 1970's)   3/4 full of an amber liquid which they poured into my wine glass.  I sipped it, cautiously.  This was not wine! This was the finest brandy I had ever tasted.  And another sip . . . waiting for that sneeze which never came!  But the song did! (If you click this link, and the arrow at the top of that page, you'll hear the song. Raise your glass and sing along -- the lyrics appear in both Armenian and English script!)

THE TROUBADOR OF MARASH

My father tells another story (recorded in the 1970's in Newton, Massachusetts,) a story about Aleksanin Delisi (Alexander's Crazy One). The exact transcription follows.

"This is Bethel's Daddy speaking. When I was a little boy in Marash, there was a man that was called Aleksanin Delisi -- and this man used to go to different homes and recite poetry so they would give him a piece of bread or some food to eat. He used to ride on a stick making believe that it was a little horse as he came through the streets -- and then as he came in [to the house], he would recite poetry to the women so they would give him something to eat. And one of the poems I remember is this, in Turkish:
Birini evi geldim; o birini alajak dedim; öldüm iki avratin elinden. Translated it means:
I bought a pair of shoes for one of my wives; and I promised to buy (for) the other; I am dying from the hands of the two women that I have.

Aleksanin Delisi was Armenian, about 50 years old. I don't believe he was crazy, but he used to make himself crazy so that [long pause] . . . the Turks would never touch a crazy person. . .

This man was the type of a man that would not accept bread from any person unless it was given to him after he performed; he would tell stories in Turkish, in poetry form. And after he got through, he would then accept the piece of bread that you would give him. In the back of my mind I have a feeling that he always talked in poetry, in Turkish. Here's one of the songs that he sang. [Peter first hums, then sings the following in a beautiful minor key.] öldün anan helal ola sütünü! Cahil oldum dinlemedim sözünü." ["Mother, you died, blessed be your milk. I was ignorant (young and innocent) and did not listen to your words."]

N.B. 1) Peter translates the first poem he recites to the meaning generally understood in Marash rather than an exact word for word translation. The reader should know that Peter was fluent in Turkish, his native language.
2) Marash Girl thanks Varteni for the English translation of the second poem/song.

A MIGHTY MAN WAS HE

When I was in the third grade at Claflin School in Newtonville, Massachusetts, our teacher Miss Griffin required each of us to memorize a poem every week, and to recite that poem in front of the whole class.  My father took this as a signal to delve into his treasured books of poetry. (He found such gems as the Gettysburg Address, which granted was not really a poem but I still had to memorize!) He coached me daily until I had committed the poem of the week to memory.  Of course, my third grade class had no idea of the significance of what I was reciting, but my father understood (and he made sure I understood) the true meaning of the verses. Among the longest poems I had to memorize was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH; Daddy himself would often go around reciting at least the first verse.  He identified with the Smithy.

I not only learned the poem I have copied below 'by heart' (as we used say), but committed to heart my love for the mighty who work by the sweat of their brow and owe no man.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!


He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

N.B. When I was 8 years old, there still was a 'smithy' working in one of the sheds in the village of Newtonville, Massachusetts,  on Washington Street between Lowell Avenue and Walnut Streets, where the public parking lot today has wiped away all memory of the Village Blacksmith!

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT

My dad's cherished volume of poetry by Robert Burns was gifted to him by the Scotland born dad of his lifelong friend Ian MacDonald.  As we were growing up,  Daddy would recite for us in perfectly accented Scottish brogue,  "A Man's A Man For A' That"  . . .  And then translate the poem into plain English.  Just to make sure that we got the message!

Robert Burns: A Man's A Man For A' That (1795)

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

[and Dad's favorite verse follows:]

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.