"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations
"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy
I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike
"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti
[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]
I was laying round town just spending my time Out of a job and not makin' a dime When up steps a feller and he says, "I suppose That you're a bronc rider by the looks of your clothes?"
He guesses me right. "And a good one I'll claim Do you happen to have any bad ones to tame?" He says he's got one that's a good one to buck And at throwing good riders he's had lots of luck.
He says this old pony has never been rode And the man that gets on him is bound to be throwed I gets all excited and I ask what he pays To ride this old pony a couple of days.
He says, "Ten dollars." I says, "I'm your man The bronc never lived that I cannot fan The bronc never tried nor never drew breath That I cannot ride till he starves plumb to death."
He says, "Get your saddle. I'll give you a chance." We got in the buggy and went to the ranch We waited till morning, right after chuck I went out to see if that outlaw could buck.
Down in the corral, a-standin' alone Was this little old caballo, a strawberry roan He had little pin ears that touched at the tip And a big forty-four brand was on his left hip.
He was spavined all round and he had pidgeon toes Little pig eyes and a big Roman nose He was U-necked and old with a long lower jaw You could tell at a glance he was a regular outlaw.
I buckled on my spurs, I was feeling plumb fine I pulled down my hat and I curls up my twine I threw the loop at him, right well I knew then Before I had rode him I'd sure earn my ten.
I got the blind on him with a terrible fight Cinched on the saddle and girdled it tight Then I steps up on him and pulled down the blind And sat there in the saddle to see him unwind.
He bowed his old neck and I'll say he unwound He seemed to quit living down there on the ground He went up to the east and came down to the west With me in the saddle, a-doing my best.
He sure was frog-walkin', I heaved a big sigh He only lacked wings for to be on the fly He turned his old belly right up to the sun For he was a sun-fishin' son of a gun.
He was the worst bronco I've seen on the range He could turn on a nickel and leave you some change While he was buckin' he squalled like a shoat I tell you that outlaw, he sure got my goat.
I tell all the people that pony could step And I was still on him a-buildin' a rep He came down on all fours and turned up on his side I don't see how he kept from losing his hide.
I lost my stirrups, I lost my hat, I was pullin' at leather as blind as a bat With a phenomenal jump he made a high dive And set me a-winding up there through the sky.
I turned forty flips and came down to the earth And sit there a-cussing the day of his birth
I know there's some ponies that I cannot ride Some of them living, they haven't all died. But I bet all money there's no man alive That can ride Old Strawberry when he makes that high dive.
Cowboy Poetry is meant to be fun as well as serious. Here
is the fun side of a bronco busting ride gone very wrong....
Young Sheldon - Pity the Cowboy
Cowboy Poetry is also meant to be sung as much as to be narrated. Here are some saddle songs from the hearts of America's prairie ballad-eers.
"It [is] a jazz of Irish storytelling, Scottish seafaring and cattle tending, Moorish and Spanish horsemanship, European cavalry traditions, African improvisation, and Native American experience, if also oppression. . . . the songs and poems of the American cowboy are part of that old tradition of balladry." —Western Folklife Center Archive
One of those rare indigenous creations of America, cowboy poetry has a long and vivid history, driven by its colorful practitioners and memorable canon of poems.
Cowboy poetry is distinctive both in its culturally specific subject matter and its traditional use of rhyme and meter. While the range of emotional landscapes explored in cowboy poetry are the traditional province of poetry—from joy to grief, from humor to spirituality—the particulars derive from the American West: horses, cattle, fire, prairie storms, mythic figures of cowboys and ranchers, and the sublime wilderness. The use of forms such as ballads and odes and of poetic devices such as mnemonics and repetition sets cowboy poetry apart from the majority of contemporary poetry and relates it more to the Homeric tradition of oral poetry.
In the anthology Cowboy Poetry Matters, editor Robert McDowell collects the poetry of such cowboy poets as Paul Zarzyski, Linda Hussa, Laurie Wagner Buyer, Wallace McRae, and Buck Ramsey, as well as poets such as Maxine Kumin and Donald Hall, who have written in the genre. The collection also contains scholarly essays about cowboy poetry, including Zarzyski's response to Dana Gioia’s "Can Poetry Matter?": "The Lariati versus/verses the Literati: Loping Toward Dana Gioia's Dream Come Real." The book ends with a list of "Cowboy Poetry Anthologies of Note," and while there are cowboy poetry archives, publications, documentaries, audio recordings, and online resources, most would argue that cowboy poetry lives in the human voice, during live readings and gatherings.
Many cowboy poetry gatherings exist in almost all Western states, but the most popular of them is the annual National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, held in Elko, Nevada. Every January, cattle people, rural folks, poets, musicians, western enthusiasts, and curious urban dwellers gather for the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, described as "a jubilee of conversation, singing, dancing, great hats and boots, stories, laughing and crying, big steaks, incessant rhymes, and a galloping cadence that keeps time for a solid week." Launched in 1985, the Gathering is a program of the Western Folklife Center, a regional nonprofit folk arts organization dedicated to preserving, perpetuating, and presenting the folk arts of the West.
Being rather devoted to cowboy poetry, we’re delighted when people take an interest in the classics. Many traditions crystallize around core classics–pieces that become standards to those “in the know.” Cowboy poetry is no exception. Why do certain poems (and not others) evoke such loyalty through the years? What do they inspire? For whom? If you’re looking to learn your classics, where might you start? Who better to know a thing or two about all this than the Ask a Cowboy Poet panel? So, we posed them this month’s question:
What three classic poems do you think every cowboy poet should know, and why? - Sincerely, Seeking Out Standards
It’s a two-parter. Next month, the poets consider the idea of “new classics.”
What is a classic cowboy poem? The way it seems to be is if it is known, recited, and has an awareness fifty years after being written, it has earned the right to be classified "classic."
The three classic cowboy poems I believe are worthy of every cowboy poet knowing, and why, are:
Sierry Petes sings
Tying Knots in the Devil's Tail,
by Gail I. Gardner
“Tying Knots in the Devil’s Tail” by Gail I. Gardner
This poem made itself to every corner of the cowboy world when the web wasn't here. It traveled mostly word of mouth. Its storyline is mystic with lots of chuckles thrown in. Plus, it's cowboy situation, cowboy language, and cowboy way of thinking. Barely old enough, but it is a true classic. Many artists have put tunes to it and performed and recorded it as a song.
“The Strawberry Roan” by Curley Fletcher
This poem was also put to music, but they left the poem intact (no bridge, no chorus). One of the most important poems of the genre.
“When They’ve Finished Shipping Cattle in the Fall” by Bruce Kiskaddon
Meditative, reminiscent, image painting, all in cowboy vocabulary. Real cowboy but relatable to all.
These by no means should be construed as the best, but they are three of the top, maybe, fifteen.
DW GROETHE:
There's no real answer to this as, for me anyway, it'll vary with the day because there are too many great "classic" poems out there. What I recommend you do is learn a few poems from each of the "classic" poets...Henry Herbert Knibbs, Badger Clark, S. Omar Barker, Curley Fletcher, and the list goes on... I almost always recite "The Strawberry Roan," but since every audience is different I might decide to do "Boomer Johnson" (Knibbs) instead of "Tyin' Knots in the Devil’s Tail" (Gardner) or "Ridin'" (B. Clark) instead of "The Chuckwagon" ( S. O. Barker). And then there's poets like Robert Service who are not "cowboy" poets but fit in fine with what we do, like "The Shooting of Dan McGrew"...see what I mean? We're lucky to have such a grand list to choose from. A plethora (been waiting forever to use that word) if you will. Have fun and go fencin'...it's the perfect time to memorize poems.
Thanks for askin',
dw
VIRGINIA BENNETT:
The first one that came to my mind as I set about to write this was Henry Herbert Knibbs, “Where the Ponies Come to Drink.” Mr. Knibbs gave us a great, poetic style to play with and also teaches us how to paint a picture with words as well as any other poet of any genre.
The next one I thought of was “The Men That Don't Fit In” by Robert W. Service. A student of cowboy poetry can learn from this poem that he or she can write about the sort of person a cowboy might be without even mentioning anything about a ranch, a horse, or a cow. That was a lesson I needed to learn in my early years of writing poetry because I mistakenly thought cowboy poetry HAD to include "ranchy stuff." I was blessed early on to be mentored by the gifted poet, Vess Quinlan. He taught me that I could write about the things that are common to mankind or even unique to a certain subject without always having to include sagebrush, broncs, or chuckwagon cocineros.
“Between the Lines” by Bruce Kiskaddon has stuck in my mind ever since I first read it back in the 1980s. I enjoy poetry that goes to the raw and rarely-discussed part of history (or any story about any topic). “Between the Lines” takes us to a dark place in ways that put us right into a tragic situation. Surely a lesson on the value of such literature is worthy to be heard.
Honorable Mentions:
“They Keep A-Stealing on You in the Night” by Rhoda Sivell
“Ridin’” by Charles Badger Clark
“Hail and Farewell” by Delia Gist Gardner
BILL LOWMAN:
“Tying Knots in the Devil’s Tail” by Gail I. Gardner
“When They’ve Finished Shipping Cattle in the Fall” by Bruce Kiskaddon
“Little Joe the Wrangler” by N. Howard “Jack” Thorpe
These were actually poems that were sung a cappella as most old classic songs were. They record our early past history that otherwise would be lost. They preserve our heritage as we're doing contemporary work of our cowboy era. The early-day cowboy was basically nomadic and therefore most of their history was oral. The few poems and songs are stellar to its cultural survival.
My dad always sang "Little Joe the Wrangler" and "When the Work’s All Done This Fall"* to my brothers and I as we grew up on horseback and doing ranch work. It wasn't until I got a little older that I realized he couldn't carry a tune in a tin bucket, so I recited poems instead of songs to spare my offspring while we rode. A cowboy poem and a cowboy song are basically double first cousins or perhaps even siblings.
YVONNE HOLLENBECK:
First of all, it is good that every cowboy poet knows and studies many of the old classics, if nothing else but to inspire and enhance their own writing of poetry, but not necessarily to memorize them and recite them. When people attend a cowboy poetry gathering, for the most part, they enjoy hearing the work of the poet doing the presenting. There are a few reciters that do an outstanding job doing the "classics," and they are contracted and scheduled for that purpose. With that said, here are three that I consider classics that are my favorites:
"The House With Nobody In It" by Joyce Kilmer
Although it speaks of an old, abandoned house, this poem speaks volumes about the sad abandonment and deterioration of farm and ranch homes, barns and buildings across the West, and how the West is changing.
"Ridin'" by Charles Badger Clark
This poem echoes the sentiments of every cowboy.
"Rekindling Campfires" by Ben Arnold (also known as "The Campfire Has Gone Out") Although not as widely known as many old classics, this poem was published in the book with the same title in 1926 by the University of North Dakota Press, and in numerous publications since, but was originally written in 1879. The words were put to music by Ben's friend, John Suttles, a Kentuckian, who was freighting at Ft. Niobrara with Ben and who was an excellent musician. The song was sang around campfires, passed along, and was often sung by Don Edwards, who also recorded the same under the title, "The Campfire Has Gone Out." Arnold, a Civil War vet, lived at a time when he could see the whole procession of the Old West, and said that the years spent as a cowboy were the happiest of his life. Around the round-up wagon and the campfire were formed friendships in which there was no shadow of turning. How do I know all this? Because Ben Arnold was my great-grandfather. Imagine my feelings, while standing offstage getting ready to perform at a program in Elko as Don Edwards closed his set singing that song.
DICK GIBFORD:
Cowboys like me are sure enuff dinosaurs. I don’t even know how to run a computer. My cell phone is the limit to my technical ability. I have spent most of my adult life in cow camps without electricity and it’s totally okay with me living the old way. Now that I have said my piece about that, just know that when I answer an Ask a Cowboy Poet question, it’s based on strictly common-sense thinking and what I have read in books. There is another source of knowledge available to some, that all of us have a chance at, but unfortunately we just get a glimpse of now and then. So, now that I am done with my philosophical meanderings, I will get to the question. Since I am a proud American, my first choice of a classic that would be nice if everyone would read is: “Paul Revere’s Ride” by Longfellow. The other two would be: “The Man From Snowy River” by Banjo Paterson, and “The Tome of Time” by Curley Fletcher. The why for these other two is this: “The Man From Snowy River” was written by a poetic genius from down under, and the other one was written by a poetic genius that never went past fourth grade, reared and raised a cowboy on the high deserts along the California-Nevada border.
*Note from the Western Folklife Center: We edited titles and writing credits in the poets’ responses so that the same poem is referred to by the same title throughout. But, in oral tradition, the poems go by variations and shorthands of the titles, so we left a hint of that everyday usage here and there.
“The Tome of Time” by Curley Fletcher
* * * * * * *
Paul Revere’s Ride
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807-1882)
Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,— One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,— By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, “All is well!” A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,— A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse’s side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer’s dog, And felt the damp of the river-fog, That rises when the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,— How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,— A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Untold Volumes is a feminist theology poetry series from a variety of perspectives and faith traditions, featuring both established and emerging poets. The poems explore the intersections of revisionism and remembrance, celebrations and speculations, doubts and fury, psalms and midrash. Readers are invited to engage with the difficult questions and challenges inherent in spiritual experience as the poetic lens condenses powerful insights and propels us toward rediscovery of the familiar. Click here to learn more about the Untold Volumes poetry blog.
