It always amazes me when I discover that poems like “There Was a Man of Double Deed” were included in 19th century anthologies of nursery rhymes. Perhaps this poem has the moralizing intent of reminding children (and other listeners) that every story inevitably leads to death, regardless of the off-beat twists and turns along the way.

But I think what fascinates listeners of this poem is the same thing that fascinates listeners of ancient ghazals. Once the bard has set up the format of the poem in the beginning, the fun is anticipating how subsequent couplets will develop that format. In this case, one question the listener has is whether the bard will choose to repeat the noun at the end of the line (seed, snow, door, back) or the noun in the middle of the line (ship, bird). Others, of course, are what kind of situation the bard will create with that word and what rhyme he will use for the next couplet.

What makes this poem particularly satisfying is its circularity – the last word of the poem is “indeed,” which leads us right back to the poem’s first line, which ends in “deed.” So while various doubles may be resolved at the end, as Robert Pinsky suggests, they also continue.

I was not surprised to read that this poem may have influenced William Blake to write "A Poison Tree." It is, indeed [sic], a mesmerizing poem.

What a thing to sing to a child! I would imagine by the time they reached the end (no pun intended), a child would be so drunk on the gorgeous flights of imagination the impact of death's appearance would be softened. The fierce imagination of this poem reminds me of "Tom O'Bedlam". Thanks for posting this Robert.

Thanks for this wonderful post Mary Ann. I am between obligations, just checked in . . . and feel some of the pleasure of giving what seems to be a good party.

RP

That last indeed taking us back to the beginning of the poem is a good catch, MA, particularly since the poet plays with birth, life, and rebirth in the lines about melting snow. We have the two concepts of time driving this poem in fun ways. The repetition of the "when.'twas" mimics the rhythms of circular conceptions of time, while the leaps in imagery suggest a (non)linear journey from fecundity to death. But, of course, as you point out this journey is simply right back to the beginning of the poem.

I wonder about the moral for the children. To me it is a little less esoteric than all things must die. It is that if you deal double, i.e. if you say one thing and do another, or deal with a person one way to their face and another behind their back, or try to have it both ways, you sow the seeds of your own destruction. Or was that more esoteric?

Or was that more esoteric?

SV, I think your moral was more esoteric. But as I implied in my toppost and said elsewhere, I really don't think the moral is/was as important as the rhyme and meter. Kidz probably liked the sound of it and the outrageousness of the leaps from couplet to couplet.

MA

And yes (responding to something of yours in another thread, SV), the leaps do get more outrageous as the poem/narrative continues. But I think that's true of most contrived stories for kidz of all ages (e.g. Robert Service's Yukon poems or maybe Edward Lear).

MA

I agree with Mary Ann that the rhymes --and the leaping narrative?-- provide, for child or adult, a kind of talisman or armor against the dread or violence or disruption. A central principle of art?

I agree with Mary Ann that the rhymes --and the leaping narrative?-- provide, for child or adult, a kind of talisman or armor against the dread or violence or disruption.

Robert, in all fairness, I think it was tmorin who posted that idea.

An aside -- a Boston friend who knows I frequent Slate's PoemsFray sent me a Boston Globe article about you and Inman Square. I lived on Inman Street in the pink house closest to the Square in the mid-70's when I was getting a Master's in Broadcasting at BU. (I doubt it's still pink, with all the gentrification going on.) This was before I became a poetry nut. At the time, I was burned out from teaching HS and thought I'd go into children's TV. But I realized that I really missed teaching and returned to it. Anyway, I used to drive my car down Magazine Street, turn left onto Chestnut, park the car, and walk across the BU bridge to go to class. Is the original Legal's still in Inman Square? What about the Proposition?

Mary Ann

Whoops, apologies to T.Morin. (I think in the wealth of threads I have become more than a little confused. I wonder if there's a way, maybe with help from Slate experts, to concentrate things a bit more.)

General principles that I take away from the discussion so far, hard to formulate, but--: the ways poems recall one another, or are more causally linked than that. The different degrees and kinds of tact, between under-interpreting and over-interpreting, that different works of art suggest. The pleasure of mystery.

(Mary Ann, I should have known from your excellent posts that you have the intelligence of Inman Square folk. The original Legal's is long gone (fire, Rosie's Bakery in that space now) and there is a Boston Improv, equivalent of the old Proposition. My neighborhood. Much Portuguese spoken.

Hi Mary Ann,

Thanks for the correction, although it wasn't necessary at all. I've always enjoyed your comments at the Fray and look forward to reading more.

Tomas Morin

Tomas Morin!!!

Perhaps you may remember several of us went nutz over your poem "The Box," when it was posted here on Slate. Wasn't that the poem I suggested might have a reference to a Joseph Cornell box? I just re-read it, and it doesn't seem so plausible now, but is there anything you want to add now about that poem?

Mary Ann

I seem to remember the discussion was very lively. The Cornell box that set me on my way was the "Lobster Ballet"; it's a whimsical little bit of weirdness I love. The only image I can find of it is halfway down the page here:

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Yes, let's all raise a glass and toast Mary Ann for her consistently smart comments on poetry, including a few very perceptive insights she had on a poem of mine that was on Slate a couple years ago. Cheers!

Hey thanks, Robert Thomas, but you're probably being kind only because I liked your poem, especially that glorious ending --

On your honeymoon
I'll be the aa, the glorious, trillion-spined
black lava slicing through your flip-flops.