Harvey H. Jackson: Daddy was a poet
Jun 12, 2013 | 2574 views |  0 comments | 158 158 recommendations | email to a friend | print
He’s a poet
And he knows it
His feet show it
They’re long fellows


— Harvey H. Jackson Jr.

Daddy loved poetry.

Even wrote some.

Like that.

His inclination to verse came back to me recently when I was visiting my mama. I went out to the Poutin’ House to restock and to “pout,” and while I was there I noticed a small paperback book among the others things on his bookshelf.

Daddy was a reader, so even now, nearly three years after his death, it is hard to go to where he had spent any time without finding books. So there were and still are books in the Poutin’ House.

It was an eclectic collection that included some classics, some popular fiction, some history and a copy of Playboy, which I am sure he kept because it contained the “lusted in my heart” interview with Jimmy Carter. Daddy liked Carter.

But what caught my eye that day was The Pocket Book of Popular Verse published in 1945. Though its well-worn pages were yellowed and brittle, it was still in good shape, so I borrowed it.

I have it beside me as I write.

One of my fondest memories of my father is as a boy riding with him in his war-surplus Jeep, going out to our farm or to visit a friend. As he drove he would quote poetry. At length.

Poetry that rhymed — Daddy was not much for free verse. He loved the poems of Robert W. Service. “The Cremation of Sam McGee” was a particular favorite of his and, through him, a favorite of mine. (I read it once to my oldest daughter who liked it so much that she read it to her elementary school class. The teacher was impressed at her reading skill and horrified by the subject matter. Some of the students were likely scarred for life. Good poetry can do that to you.)

However, dearest to Daddy were little verses touched with humor and tinged with irony.

He frequently quoted Service’s “My Madonna,” in which the poet tells of an artist who paints a portrait of a prostitute (“a woman from the streets, shameless but oh so fair”) and when he finished, a “connoisseur” came and proclaimed it to be “Mary, the mother of God.” So he painted a halo and sold it to a local church, which hung the hooker over the altar.

Daddy loved that sorta stuff.

When he loaded me up to take me to college at Marion Military Institute, the school he selected because he felt I would be safe there until I was mature enough to go out on my own, he did not impart the “to thine own self be true” advice that Polonius gave Laertes (though he could have, being as he was a well-read graduate of what was then Alabama Polytechnic Institute, now Auburn University). Instead, he favored me with one of those verses he picked up (or wrote) when he was a Marion cadet.

Rooty toot toot, Rooty toot toot

We’re the boys from the Institute.

We don’t smoke and we don’t chew

And we don’t go with the girls who do.

Good advice, then and now.

Thumbing through the Pocket Book of Popular Verse, letting it fall open to places Daddy creased and marked, I got one of those “memory lane” experiences that let me follow behind him, picking out his choices and reading them as if he were there.

Leigh Hunt’s “Jenny Kissed Me” reminded him of the girls of his youth as surely as it reminds me of the girls of mine. “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam” was another of his frequently quoted favorites, as was Lewis Carroll’s “The Walrus and the Carpenter” — if nothing else, his tastes were diverse.

I only know of once when Daddy recited poetry to a crowd. It was in a high school elocution class (they call it “Speech” today if they offer it at all). Students were told to present a poem of their own choosing. After the girls had recited girl-verses about poets counting the ways they loved someone, Daddy rose and began.

Dark and dreary was the night.

A storm was drawing neigh.

And eerie steaks of lightning flashed across the winter sky.

Out of the dark and dismal woods

There steals a vengeful man.

A mighty oaken club is clutched, within his strong right hand.

The club is raised, and held on high.

Then falls with a sickening thud.

And there, upon the dark, cold ground lies murdered

(Dramatic pause here)

A potato bug.

The girls were mortified. The teacher was mortified. The boys gave him a standing ovation. And before the teacher could intervene, Daddy launched into an encore.

The night grew dark.

The clouds grew big.

The lightening struck.

And killed a pig.

As Father’s Day approaches, I am reminded how proud I am to be his son.

Harvey H. (“Hardy”) Jackson III is Eminent Scholar in History at Jacksonville State University and a columnist and editorial writer for The Star. Email: hjackson@jsu.edu.
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