Poetry and Pipe Smoking

motie2

"Sam Henry Collection - 1939"

He is best known for his collection of ballads and songs in Songs of the People, the largest and most comprehensive collection of folk-songs from Northern Ireland assembled between the wars (1923 – 1939), when he was Song Editor for the Northern Constitution, a weekly newspaper in Coleraine.

Translated from Gaelic by Andy Doey

English verse by George Graham

The Black Pipe

I am a woeful beggar as I go from door to door,

Seeking alms of those again that wouldn't give before,

Yet if I got the best of broth with helpings of cold tripe,

I would rather have an extra reek of my black pipe.

I never had much common sense or reason in my life,

But never was so foolish as to get myself a wife,

Nor with the pack can I be found, I never shoot the snipe,

My only fun is hunting up tobacco for my pipe.

Oh, would I be Kind Cormac buoyed up with royal joy?

Oh, would I be a Hector, who was once in famous Troy?

Or would I be a captain of an army in the fight?

No, I'd rather be a beggar with his own black pipe.

Suppose I was a bold Ardrigh with power to rule the land,

With wisdom great as Solomon, who had a king's command;

Yet all a kingdom ever meant, right off the slate I'd wipe

For my lonely mountain cabin and my own black pipe.

Now Orpheus upon his harp made music sweet and clear,

It charmed the rocks until they moved, the tides lay low to hear,

But all such tuneful melody would give me no delight

Unless I had a whiff or two of my own black pipe.

Not sweet to me the songs of birds throughout the countryside.

Nor yet the lonely silent swans that in the rivers glide,

The summer buds give no perfume when berried fields are ripe

Like the burning of tobacco in my own black pipe.

I'll say farewell forever to every kind of spree,

To making songs and stories and to vexing poetry;

I am afflicted sorely and my tears I will not wipe

Till they swim me to my coffin with my own black pipe.

motie2

You might also enjoy The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pipe and Pouch 

Title: Pipe and Pouch -- The Smoker's Own Book of Poetry

Release Date: February 3, 2005 [EBook #14887]

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/14887/14887-h/14887-h.htm

Or this poem by J.S.Bach

Edifying Thoughts of a Tobacco Smoker

Whene’re I take my pipe and stuff it

And smoke to pass the time away,

My thoughts as I sit there and puff it,

Dwell on a picture sad and grey:

It teaches me that very like

Am I myself unto my pipe.

Like me, this pipe so fragrant burning

Is made of naught but earth and clay;

To earth I too shall be returning.

It falls and, ere I’d think to say,

It breaks in two before my eyes;

In store for me a like fate lies.

No stain the pipe’s hue yet doth darken;

It remains white. Thus do I know

That when to death’s call I must harken

My body too, all pale will grow

To black beneath the sod ’twill turn.

Or when the pipe is fairly glowing,

Behold then, instantaneously,

The smoke off into thin air going,

Till naught but ash is left to see.

Man’s frame likewise away will burn

And unto dust his body turn.

How oft it happens when one’s smoking:

The stopper’s missing from the shelf,

And one goes with one’s finger poking

Into the bowl and burns oneself.

If in the pipe such pain doth dwell,

How hot must be the pains of Hell.

Thus o’er my pipe, in contemplation

Of such things, I can constantly

Indulge in fruitful meditation

And so, puffing contentedly,

On land, on sea, at home, abroad,

I smoke my pipe and worship God.

~ Johann Sebastian Bach

motie2

https://thebadgerpiper.wordpress.com/page/2/

An Ode to my Pipes

APRIL 6, 2016

I sit in my study away from the stress,

Of a busy world that throws me quite in distress,

Here I am surrounded by the finer things,

And the pleasant atmosphere that it brings.

A book to read, a drink to sip, a fine chair,

And my briar pipes and tobacco so fair.

Once my briar is lit and I’m puffing away,

My one desire is to remain and stay,

The haze of pipe smoke comforts my weary soul,

Charmed by the burning leaf in my bowl,

Here a man is allowed a quiet respite,

With this treasure my weary soul delights.

The cloud is thick but I’m content with ev’ry puff

And each turn of the page, for me its enough,

There is no want or need, only contentment,

I know dear pipe that you share this sentiment,

I don’t want to leave, oh pipe, but the catch is,

Oh dear, I believe I’ve run out of matches.

                                           ~ TheBadgerPiper

thebadgerpiper

Thank you for choosing to include my poem, @motie2 !

I've looked through Pipe and Pouch while checking out Project Gutenberg. Here's one that I'm fond of from that collection:

A POET'S PIPE.

From the French of Charles Baudelaire.

A poet's pipe am I,

And my Abyssinian tint

Is an unmistakable hint

That he lays me not often by.

When his soul is with grief o'erworn

I smoke like the cottage where

They are cooking the evening fare

For the laborer's return.

I enfold and cradle his soul

In the vapors moving and blue

That mount from my fiery mouth;

And there is power in my bowl

To charm his spirit and soothe,

And heal his weariness too.

motie2

Thank you for the submission. I like it very much; it conjures a real atmosphere or mood.

Anyone else know of pipe poetry?

PappyJoe

No but I will try to get inspired and write something.

motie2

@PappyJoe -- Cool! I've written some poetry myself, but nothing that I would want subjected to public scrutiny or criticism. I eager await your contribution!!!

mfresa

Does anyone read Robert Service?  I think he was a pipe smoker...

motie2

Because I love the soothing weed

And am of sober type,

I'd choose me for a friend in need

A man who smokes a pipe.

A cove who hasn't much to say,

And spits into the fire,

Puffing like me a pipe of clay,

Corn-cob or briar.

A chap original of thought,

With cheery point of view,

Who has of gumption quite a lot,

And streaks of humour too.

He need not be a whiskered sage,

With wisdom over-ripe:

Just give me in the old of age

A pal who smokes a pipe.

A cigarette may make for wit,

Although I like it not;

A good cigar, I must admit,

Gives dignity to thought.

But as my glass of grog I sip

I never, never gripe

If I have for companionship

A guy who smokes a pipe.

                              ~ Robert Service

xDutchx

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I'm a schizophrenic, and have to make my tobacco stretch for two

~Dutch

motie2

I think the original was something along the lines of:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I'm a schizophrenic, and so am I.

           ~ Comic Monkey

xDutchx

Yep, some writers and poets get their inspiration from other writers and poets, and some just blatantly plagiarize. I can usually come up with a twisted version of my own when I am drinking.

mfresa

Excellent Robert Service poem.  I read most of his works, and he was very talented.

motie2

I agree. A wonderfully evocative poem.

motie2

213 page .pdf for downloading