Poets’ Corner- The Mad Hatter 15th Century
France’s Francois Villon- Whether France Claims Him Or Not
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
Once, a long time ago, an old
communist I do not remember which version of the Marx-Lenin-Trotsky-Stalin-Mao-Castro
Hoxha creed he adhered to, although he
had had some impressive documented revolutionary credentials in Germany before
Hitler pulled the hammer down in 1933 and he just barely got out into American
exile by a very long and circuitous route, told me that as far as culture
affairs, you know art, novels, music and what I want to talk about here, poetry,
is basically subject to whatever personal whims a person may have on these
matters. The caveat to all this is that both creators and admirers should be
left to their own devises except if they are actively engaged with counter-revolutionary
activity. Now that I think about it that old communist probably got the idea
from Leon Trotsky himself who wrote about such matters in the 1920s in books like
Literature
and Revolution although I now almost positive that he did not consider
himself a follower of that great revolutionary who was exiled in the late 1920s.
The point today is that if a
left-wing political activist like myself, say, were very interested in the
poetry of Emily Dickerson or Wallace Stevens or Thomas Mann or, what the hell, Edna
Saint Vincent Millay then what of it. Except those kinds of poets do not
“speak” to me. Poets like Allan Ginsberg burning the pages with his negro
streets, his clamoring against the industrial complex, his angel hipsters, his
chanting against the fate of the best minds of his generation, guys like the
gangster-poet Gregory Corso blazing the hot New York streets with his words and
taking no prisoners, old Rimbaud with his Paris mad ravings, Verlaine too,
Genet with his black soul and ladies of the flowers “speak” to me. The
troubadours, the “bad boys and girls,” the waifs, the gangsters, the drifters,
grifters and midnight sifters and those who act as muses for the fallen are
what makes me sit up and listen.
And that brings us to Francois Villon, the “max
daddy” of bad boy poets (and brigands) from the 15th century.
Strangely while I have picked up on most of my favorite poets from some
academic setting I learned of Villon from two maybe unusual sources. First from
the 1930s film The Petrified Forest where
the Bette Davis character, Gabby, was crazy for the Villon book of poems sent
from her returned to home mother in France. More importantly the poet and what
he stood for was brought up in the film in conversation with Leslie Howard’s
character Alan who was a Villon-like misplaced out of sorts wanderer out in the
Arizona desert. The other source was a poem by Villon used as a front-piece of
an article by Hunter S. Thompson who used the sentiment expressed by Villon
where he considered himself a stranger in his own country (as did Thompson back
in Nixon times in America).
But back to the muses, back to the
gangsta muses (sorry hip-hop nation for stealing your thunder but your
sing-song lyrics definitely make me think you have drawn from the same well,
the same Villon well, especially guys like Biggie, Tupac, 50 cent, and Brother
Cole, a brother from the same damn “sew those worn-out pants” projects
neighborhood in spirit as me). Old Villon must have gotten tripped up on his
DNA finding the back streets of Paris and later exile spots more attractive
than the court life, the scholar’s. Trouble followed the guy wherever he moved,
or maybe better he followed trouble seeking low-life haunts and dark characters
to help do his nocturnal bidding in times when the night was your friend. Granted
he had little room to maneuver in those days since he was a city man, an educated
man of the Paris circuit, and not some outlaw Robin Hood working the old rural
pastures and forests). His poetry speaks of drunken town sots, of quick
upstairs flights with besotten wenches, wenches who moreover know how to take
him around the world for a small bag of dust, of grand bargains with the kings
of thieves, of hard-crusted corner boys doing his bidding (excuse the anachronism
but a precious read of his life makes me think of such young men hanging against
sullen walls, boots up, looking for all the world like jaded youth), of sweet
sweated tavern dark corners to plan, plan the next caper, or the next poem to
explain away his life led.
Who knows what makes a man or woman
a stranger in their own land, an internal exile. Maybe like Villon it was his
dismissal of the vanities of court life, the vacuity of the student life, or
the lure of the outlaw life when bourgeois society (and France in the 15th
century was reaping the beggar’s banquet of bourgeois society, beginning to
create those little master craftsmen workshops that would dominate the French economy
until very recently) and it took no Karl Marx to notice that the old ways had
to give way to the new city ways with their gold and death to free spirits, to
those who lived outside allegiances. Maybe like Ginsberg shattered by the smoke
of downtown Paterson, maybe shattered by the hysterical cries of his beloved if
discarded mother, maybe shattered by the square-ness of his father-poet. Maybe
like Jean bon Genet born of some ancient mix of the crime that dared not speak
its name and crimes that had names. Trolling waterfronts looking for rough
trade, looking for his lady of the flowers. Strangers, strangers all looking
for some new Algiers, some new Casablanca, and incense, some new city
a-borning.
Villon, lord of the sneak away
night, besotted with six wines, drunk with the fragrance of women. Women who
reek of the kingdom’s perfumes and if Hilary Mantel is to be believed over in
bedeviled England of the time all the women worked lilac and lemon tree leaves into
their skin so that guys, guys like Villon ready to seek a lady’s favor could
stand to be within ten feet of them. Reeking of words too, Villon reeking of
words that is, quick words, words with hidden messages, words heard in taverns,
on wormy mattresses, in stinking hayloft barns, unholy holy words that would make
men quake if they had the sense that their God gave them as a gift (or was it
the son, the damn crazed son, Jesus, called bandit), stealthily grabbing
whatever was to be grabbed and the hell with the lord business. Then writing in
dark dungeon nights looking for reprieves from a wretched life.
Beautiful, a beat down brother, no
wonder Alan the wandering homeless out of fashion intellectual in The Petrified Forest claimed Villon as
kindred, and why he could have walked on steamy late night New York streets and
found kindred among the midnight sifters. Beat, beatified before his time
probably clamoring on some woe begotten trumpet, blowing out big medieval blow notes
to the hard Seine, the hard Norman shores, to all who would listen, Yeah, Saint
Villon, sanctified, man of misrule, man of the hidden cloth, beat, beat about
six ways to Sunday if you believe his resume, if you believe his 15th
century be-bop wail. What did Kerouac, hell, a kindred, a Breton, said-yes,
moan, moan long and hard for man, and Saint Villon grant us some sign, some
path that we might come to rescue you in sotted, sweated dungeons, so that you
too can walk the fetid streets singing, holy, holy, holy.
What was it that his literary
descendants, guys like Jack Kerouac who I swear had Villon blood in him, guys
like Alan Ginsberg who sang holy, holy, holy to the new age except he cried out
in vain to vanquish dreaded Molochs, called those who listened to their own
drummers, listened to the winds beyond the towns, beyond the cities, listened
to the forest men, the men who earlier in their lives lived in towns and
cities? Oh yeah, “holy goofs.” Not goofs
like you would call some guy walking down the street today looking down and he
hits his head on a telephone pole because he wasn’t watching where he was going.
No, our holy goof, I think Kerouac used that term to describe, or rather used
that term as one of the ways to describe mad man fellow traveler Dean Moriarty,
and hence the model Neal Cassady as well, to his Sal Paradise in On The Road. A guy who is for the
moment, an existential be-bop guy, a guy who knows the score, knows right from
wrong even, knows it better than you and me, and says “what the fuck,” says you
know, I know, and so let the mystery be, let the cloistered intellectuals in
their sullen monasteries poring over the number of angel that can fit on the
head of a needle sulk while he worked on the angles, looked for dough, dames
and dope. See, I swear Villon from his hidden grave sent down to posterity the
model for the holy goof, and these other guys picked it out of the fog-bound
air.
Sweet word man Villon articulate in
a hoary dark world when gangster warlord and unsavory princes vied with each
for land, for wealth, for some fair maiden’s favors. And let’s not beat about
the bush about those favors it wasn’t for some silly scarf just off the boats
from faraway China or the Japan Seas but for a tussle in some off-hand hayloft,
some milady’s boudoir, some back room tavern straw bed. Read what you want into
that but some buck jack was taking his right of first night well before the
first night. But heroic buck jacks sometimes could speak no lady’s words, could
not utter the thoughts in an otherwise black heart and so old Villon had a
space to breath, had words to tell of love’s truths, or what milady would go to
the downy billows for. And for his services, for he was a man of the city, a
man of the back alleys, a man who consorted with the rabble, a con man and a
wordsmith in his own right and so every once in a while a bored milady would
stop her quilting, stop her needlepoint and show the old curmudgeon her downy
billows for just one word of the night, for the sound of those moans that no
child should know before his or her time.
Of course a guy who liked to walk on
the wild side, who was organically incapable of saying a straight thing if for
no other reason than self-preservation would have many a back room tavern wench
taking him around the world (yes, they, the wenches, and their procurers, knew
all about “taking a guy around the world” laughing at a candid world that liked
to think that little sexual trick was invented by Masters and Johnson or
something). And on a normal night, maybe after stealing some gold from a
merchant’s back room, maybe pilfering some goods just off the boat from the
Japan seas, maybe after waylaying some drunken sot for his ready bag of cash
that would be good enough, would sate his sexual desire. But once every dark
moonless night, maybe feeling a little put upon by his wretched place in the
world he would seek the high life, “go uptown” as they said in their own way
among the brotherhood.
And here is how it was done. A great
and gratifying scam. Some poor high life guy who made his dough off the Japan
seas or something like that had a lady love who could not be moved except by
words, words of love. And he from rough usage spoke only in twaddle. No sale.
So sweet boy Villon to the rescue. Pretty words at a dime a throw. A few
ducats. But get this that poor roughly used guy would have old boy Villon prate
the words to his love to his love. And sometimes, sometimes when there was a
dark, moonless, night maybe a little sweaty milady would close her virginal
eyes and act the backroom tavern wench and take old brother Villon around the
world. See she knew such arts too. And that roughly used sot would never be the
wiser. Oh sweet boy Villon teach your arts.
When you mess with women though,
mess in the bedroom anyway, some paid for bedroom, and it was not you paying
the freight, whether it was Eve in the garden, hell, maybe before when two
primates started doing the courtly dance or today with some Evita trying to
avoid getting your toes stepped on by some fast moving female you have to be
prepared to take the gaff. Be prepared to find that the end could only lead one
way, and it was not in favor of Villon and his progeny. So, Eve, Helen, Mary,
the Pea, some sweetie, whoever was ready to throw you to the wolves once they
were done with you had you stymied. Or maybe they would throw you to the wolves
even if they were not done with you just for practice. Ah, love, love divine,
love in the back alleys, love in that scented boudoir but love nevertheless.
Except when you mess with another
man’s woman, go against some broken code, and this too has been going on since
the garden, maybe before, maybe in some half-remembered tussle in the savannah
where the winner dragged the queen of Sheba, his queen of Sheba anyway by the
hair and took her by main force you must take the gaff as well and be prepared
to run after the rut. Whether she liked it or not. But still playing with
kingly woman is always a dicey thing and so Villon, Adam, Markin, Jackman, whoever
is now out begging for alms, for his life for the chance once more to get at
that jasmine scent that maddens his mind, keeps his thoughts clouded, disturbs
his sleep and makes him ask the question-what the fuck- or whatever old Villon
term used with his corner boys to signify defeat. And proclaim that defeat in
sweet saucy words to a candid world.
Ah youth, ah the flower of youth and
immorality, and living forever. Who had time for worrying about tomorrow today
was the thing with some loose dope, some loose talk, some loose luscious
butterfly swirl keeping you company against the dark, against the light if it
came to that over some misty river spill or some Norman exile deep sea ocean
twirl. She slumming against the drab home that she fled the last time, fled
that that too soon met husband. And so she headed north to the May time fair,
headed north to see if she could find a certain guy that she had dreamed about
ever since that night when he performed on stage and only had eyes for her. Well,
she was wrong about those eyes only for her but she found him among the Mayfair
swells, found him and he did look at her then, long longing looks before the night
was over, and before the expected other shoe fell. He, a poet after all, spoke
of flaxen hair, fierce blue eyes (fiercer when he did some foolish thing even
fiercer when some other flaxen-haired woman looked his way, or he hers), high
point breasts, shoulders built to be held, a waspish waist, honey dew thighs, a
sweet sweet spot and well-turned legs and ankles. Very heaven like some new day
Botticelli vision, garlands in her hair, rosy cheeks after he put his heat to
her.
And so they spent their time
together, moving when rumors floated that her husband had his evil design on
her, and on him for having her. But nothing ever came of it, at least nobody
around the May fair ever heard anything about any confrontation. As we catch up
to our couple though, having travelled some distance up even further north one
day they were standing in the square and an old woman (not really old today but
then old) strangling flaxen hair, sullen blues eyes (more sullen when some
other hag tried to take her flask), sagging breasts which once too had been
high pointed, craven shoulders, expanding waist (being kind to years of
flask-holding womanhood), flabby thighs, barren sweet spot, veined legs and
swollen ankles. The picture of, well, of something but that is not the point.
That day that now aging flaxen-haired one (not really aging today but then
aging) free butterfly swirl caught just a glimmer of mortality and
shuttered.
Old Villon like all of us, or most
of us, was a man of his time, spent his hours in back tavern rooms lifting up
the skirts of some low-born wench when he could (when he had his florins at the
ready and his friends too) and since he was a mixer and had some decent blood
in his veins some high-born virginal white sheets as well if he could get
through the door, could find out that her husband was out with the falcons or
with his own mistress and he would tumble her and she for days and days would
look for a sign from him, foolish woman. Spent his time in low pursuits with
his corner boys doing their midnight creep, figuring out some grift.
So, yes, he loved well, he sweated
those bulky beds well, devised many a plan to keep himself in clover but hear
this he also as a man of his time had to make his peace with the religious
sentiments of the time and while he could be accused of blasphemy, could face
the executioner’s block for what he said, could speak incestuously of his holy
mother, could speak of fondling some sweet sister saint. Yes, a man of his
time.
But know this old Villon was a man
of words, low cunning words, high born spiritual words, crafty words, insincere
words, love cometh words, wench-fetching words, suck hole words, slanderous
words, but words and for that he will ride the white horse, ride off to some
faraway beach.
Yes, wanderers, waifs, strangers in
a strange land, sneak thieves in the milady’s heart heated night, those are the
poets I want to read and listen to. And what of it.
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