MUSEUM POETICA: NEGLECTORINOS

By her own definition, Helen Adam marched through her life to the beat of her own drum. She emerged into the world just as the Victorian era was hesitantly giving way to a modern consciousness, fragmented by the shell-shock of WWI’s splintering of nations into warring factions. Growing up in a small village in Northern Scotland as the daughter of a stern Presbyterian preacher, she found rebellious solace and nourishment by devouring sensual fairy tales and macabre mysteries. She began writing her own verses while still in primary school and managed to catch the eye of the London literati, who deemed her a prodigy: Faber and Faber published her first book at the age of fourteen; she was destined for notoriety. She followed that destiny first to London, where she lived for many years working as a society columnist for The Weekly Scotsman, and then to New York — with her mother and sister in tow — as a refugee, fleeing war-ravaged Europe for brighter shores. 

Stylish, erudite, and bohemian, the Adam family (Helen, her mother, and her sister Pat) gradually made their way West; they arrived in San Francisco in the pivotal year of 1954, just as Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Robert Duncan, and Jack Spicer were all actively (albeit with very different end-goals) conjuring exciting literary movements. Helen Adam, now in her early 50s, chanting her ballads and reading everyone’s tarot with her red lipstick and decadent thrift-store style, plopped herself right into the middle of these young, uber masculine, bohemian, literary méchants. They hailed her as a singular source of inspiration: the oracle of poetry itself coming through the ballad tradition. 

And she didn’t stop there. She composed an opera, hundreds of collages, and a film; she moved to New York City where she landed on her two feet once again. Now in her 60s, she found herself at the center of a burgeoning downtown theater scene happening around the Judson Church, a spoken word scene happening around Bob Holman and the Nuyorican Poets Café, and the experimental sci-fi fiction scene around Samuel Delaney.

Her literary and artistic output is impressive. And yet, the collision course of the ballad tradition into 20th century late-Modernism did not result in Helen Adam being accepted into the canons of literary history. She remains a footnote. She’s seen as a witchy eccentric — only a few who seek her out recognize the genius behind the craft of her rhymed formal poems and wild works of art. She rests now between the cracks: too weird for the formalists, and too conventional for the avant-garde. 

Helen Adam is a singular luminary whose ballads, if you read them out loud and late at night, will sneak into your mind and create phantasmagorias of exquisite, sensual, brooding, and melancholy fairy-tales. And then, as you dream, you’ll hear that rhythm and know: there would be no Beat Generation, no San Francisco Renaissance, without the primal muse of poetry as it came through the earliest beats and rhythms of storytelling. And Helen Adam holds that oracle.

For further study and illumination:

• An excerpt from my introduction to A Helen Adam Reader, edited with an introduction by Kristin Prevallet

• An early-web collection of a few of Adam’s ballads selected by Charles Bernstein: Helen Adam Sampler (upenn.edu)

• A phenomenal, recent book edited by Alison Fraser that collects all of Helen Adam’s collages: The Collages of Helen Adam by Alison Fraser | Poetry Foundation

• Great recap and vintage video links, plus interview with Allen Ginsberg: Helen Adam (1909-1993) - The Allen Ginsberg Project and https://trancepoetics.com/a-helen-adam-reader/

A Tale Best Forgotten

Hail! Most Holy ANUBIS.
In a house by a river that lamented as it ran,
Lived a father, and his daughter, and the dog-headed man.
A father, and his daughter, and the dog-headed man!
It’s a tale best forgotten, but before the tale began
From the house to the river limped the dog-headed man.
Blood swelled the river before the tale began.
In the garden, in the garden, while the river slowly ran,
Walked the daughter, and her lover, and the dog-headed man.
The daughter, and her lover, and the dog-headed man!
It’s a tale best forgotten, but before the tale began
His daughter, by the river that reflected as it ran,
Fed the bones of her lover to the dog-headed man.
Dog Head he was fed before the tale began.

*

The Chestnut Tree

I caged my love in the early spring.
He beat his cage with a broken wing.
He beat his cage with a broken wing
Through the languid nights of summer.
Beside my window a chestnut grows,
A chestnut tree with its towering snows,
Where a breeze from Paradise gently blows,
And joy is the next new comer.
I’ll hang his cage in the chestnut tree,
In the chestnut tree, in the chestnut tree,
Among the haunts of the drunken bee,
’Mid a fragrance overpowering.
Those bees are drunk with the honey wine,
With honey wine and the hot sunshine.
They’re raving drunk with the honey wine
In the chestnut flowering, flowering.
Oh! then, perhaps he may sing to me,
In the chestnut tree, in the chestnut tree;
May sing as loud as a drunken bee
Down the green and golden gloaming.
When royally drunk with the honey wine,
With honey wine, and the hot sunshine,
He’ll sing, and swear he is mine, mine, mine,
While the bees are roaming, roaming.
The body caged, but the heart gone free.
I want his wild heart singing for me
In the chestnut tree, in the chestnut tree,
With a music fierce yet tender.
I want his song while the sunlight flows
Through the chestnut tree with its towering snows,
While a breeze from Paradise softly blows
And sighs for the heart’s surrender.
Hush, hush, the chant of the roaming bee.
I know he never will sing for me,
Though I hang his cage in the chestnut tree
Where joy is the next new comer.
For my sweet sake he never will sing.
He beats his cage with a broken wing.
He beats his cage with a broken wing
In the bee-hive house of summer.

*

The Fair Young Wife

This is a tale for a night of snow.
It was lived in the north land long ago.
An old man, nearing the end of life,
Took to his arms a fair young wife.

A wife to keep his house in the woods.
His house of echoes and solitudes,
'Mid forests gloomy and unexplored,
Hunting ground of the wolves abhorred.

Through miles of forest the wolves ran light.
She heard them running at dead of night.
She heard them running, though far away,
And her heart leapt up like a beast of prey.

"Lie still, my lady, lie still and sleep.
Though the north wind blows and the snow drifts deep
My timid love, in our curtained bed,
The whine of the wolves you need not dread."

Hunger, when the north wind blows.
Starving wolves on the winter snows.
When old age sags in a sleep profound,
The rush of the wolves is the only sound.

She dreamt she walked in the forest shade,
Alone, and naked, and unafraid.
The bonds of being dissolved and broke.
Her body she dropped like a cast off cloak.

Her shackled soul to its kindred sped.
In devouring lust with the wolves she fled.
But woke at dawn in a curtained bed.
By an old, grey man, in an airless bed.

She dreamt she walked where the wolf eyes gleam.
And soon she walked, and it was no dream.
She fell on fours from the world of man,
And howled her bliss when the rank beasts ran.

The morning life, and the mid-night life.
The sun and moon of the fair young wife.
The moon in the north land rules the sky.
She prays to it as it rises high.

"Moon in glory, shining so cold.
Oh! moon at my window big and bold.
On fields near the forest the snow lies white,
Will it show our tracks when we run tonight?

For fifty leagues on the frozen snow,
I'll feel through my fur the north wind blow,
As I run to drink of a bounding flood,
With the mighty pack on its quest for blood.

Strong, free, furious, swift to slay,
But back to his bed by the break of day!
Can I lie down at a husband's will,
When wild love runs, and my heart cries, Kill!"

*

The Birkenshaw

Silver and braw is the Birkenshaw
In the rush o' the springtime breeze.
Bonnie they grow up Badenoch,
Those circling silver trees.

None daur eater the Birkenshaw
For dread o' the elfin Queen.
The silver trees are that Lady's place
Sae high up Badenoch green.

The Elf Queen bides in the Birkenshaw,
A fountain o' ice her crown.
She leads the hunt when the hills open,
Riding the young men down.

Spurred wi' fire gae her hunting maidens
Through mists o' the haunted glen.
Slung at their hips are silver daggers
Athirst for the herts o' men.

Ill befalleth the young herdsmen
Strayed frae the moorland track,
Wha hears the horns in the mist blowing
And the elf hounds at his back.

But gin a lad ha' bonnie grey een,
Or maybe a gorse-gold head,
Some fairy maid may beckon him tae
Her lanely heather-bell bed.

Their Queen has a hert like a crystal wave,
A wave o' the murderous sea.
She'll ha' nae mercy on any young man
Nat matter how braw he be.

It was the harper Robin o' Leith
Wi' his great harp in his hand,
He's up and awa tae the Birkenshaw
In the green uncanny land.

At the first note o' the harp music
He played in the land o' the Queen,
She's started up in a shaft o' sunlicht
And glittered afore his een.

"What are ye doing, human harper,
Breaking the Elf Queen's law,
Playing your harp up Badenoch
In the magic Birkenshaw?"

"I pluck my harp in the Birkenshaw
Where the silver branches blow,
Far they mind me of the running waves
When I harped Atlantis low."

"I'll gae ye gold tae spend, Robin,
And a gold crown for your head,
If ye will enter my hollow mountain,
And harp whaur my feast is spread."

"I will na' harp for your gold, Lady,
Nor yet for a kingly crown.
The speech o' my harp can never be bought
Though the hollow hills tumble down."

"Rash man! You're a rash man, Robin.
Tae a strong god ye mun pray,
That ye look in the face o' the Queen o' Faery
And daur tae my her nay!

Saddle and bridle your steeds, my maidens,
We'll hunt in the high moonlight,
Over, and under, and galloping
By the cock o' the steeple o' light.
I'll hae the head o' that proud poet
Or ever I sleep this night.

Flourish your whips, my fairy maidens.
Fasten your spurs o' fire.
If the hunters ride, and the hunted runs,
Ha! Ha! wha'a the first tae tire?"

A' the hosts o' the Elf Queen riding,
And one man running alone.
Round the mountain the horses raced
Till the sparks spat firm the stone.

He's changed his shape tae a white owl flying
Awa tae the moorland springs,
But she knew the owl was Robin o' Leith
By the moonglow on his wings.

He's changed his shape tae a tom cat cursing
The rival o' his desire.
But she knew that tom was Robin o' Leith
By his crossed eyes kindled fire.

"Ride fast, ride fast, my fairy maidens.
Brandish your whips and ride.
The cunning poet, the shape changer,
Frae me he shall na' hide."

He's changed his shape tae a circling eagle,
And a league-long swimming seal.
But whaurever he fled, in earth or heaven,
The hunt was at his heel.

High as the stars her horns were blowing.
In the deeps he could na' drown.
He's plunged back intae the Birkenshaw,
And there they ran him down.

"Bid fareweel tae your harp, Robin,
Snap its strings wi' your hand.
For I will keep ye a thousand years
In my silent fairy land."

"The strings o' my harp are strong, Lady.
The strings o' my harp are strong.
My harp has ridden a doomsday wave
Wi' a mane a rainbow long.

When I have broken its strings, Lady,
The floods o' my hert will flow,
As once they flowed for the truth o' love
When I harped Atlantis low."

He's broken those harp strings clean and quick.
The moon shone broad and chill
As the great harper the Queen had got
Strode intae the hollow hill.

She's seized on him wi' her arms sae cauld
But he melted frae her clutch.
He's changed his shape tae the holy harp,
And that she daur na' touch.

His sangs flew up like birds about her
And blinded her wi' their wings,
Till his banes became the base o' the harp
And his hert became its strings.

The harp stands in her hollow mountain,
And whiles the harp will sing.
Pure and strong is the harp's voice
Wi' nane tee pluck a string.

The harp utters the truth o' love,
And tae a' the host that hears
A thousand years are but a day,
And a day a thousand years.

*

Memory

“Certain sylvan spirits who dwell in forests, or in great solitary trees."

— Fraser, The Golden Bough

The house was built in the tree's shade.
The tree was old when the house was made.

The man and woman, and their young child,
Came to the lonely house in the wild.

They loved each other. Their hearts beat free
Beneath the shade of the haunted tree.

The tree and the house stood high on a hill.
A great valley unearthly still

And veiled at evening in mist like snow,
With its fields and rivers lay far below.

The fair young woman and her loved son
Played 'neath the tree till dusk was gone.

They lingered under its branches old.
They kissed each other with lips night cold;

While slowly dying colours of day
From the great valley faded away.

And to his mother the child said,
"If I were living when you were dead,

Oh! lovely mother, beneath this tree,
Would you come in secret to comfort me?"

"If you were living, and I was dead,
And I could wake in the dark," she said,

"My eyes not sealed, and my lips not dumb,
Be sure, my darling, that I would come."

A lonely spirit lived in the tree.
The oak tree older than all men be.

Through long forgotten dead centuries
The oak grew slowly to monstrous size;

While in the silence beneath its boughs
The priests of the Sun God whispered vows.

For many and many an ancient year
The oak was holy and held in fear.

Adored and dreaded in worship then
By generations of mortal men.

Long past, but still, on the lonely heights
Above the valley on moonlit nights

The tree remembered how long ago
Came white robed druids through mist like snow.

The tree remembered the dagger's gleam
The solemn chanting. The victim's scream.

And how the blood leapt vital and red
Till the roots of the sacred oak were fed.

Through nights of silence, and days of sighs,
The tree remembered the sacrifice.

It saw the woman walk with the man
As walked true lovers since time began.

It saw those parents play with the child,
Three souls alone in the silent wild.

But on its branches, and round its roots
They wreathed no garlands, and hung no fruits.

No smoke of incense stirred on the air.
There came no murmur of evening prayer.

The oak, long holy and held in dread,
Stood with its branches darkly spread.

Its shadow moved like a boundless flood.
It saw the three and desired their blood.

Long days of summer to autumn ran,
The shadow touched the mind of the man.

And he grew weary, and frowned to see
The springing fires of the mighty tree,

That towered in glory and put to shame
His love's uncertain and fading flame.

The red leaves fell, and the year grew late.
The heart of the man was black with hate.

He loathed his life, and his weary mood.
And the one who loved him in solitude.

And when he listened he seemed to hear
A voice in the last leaves whisper clear.

It said, "She holds you against your will."
The moon rose high and the night was still.

He led his wife to the oak tree root,
The heart in his breast like a black fruit.

The leaves above them were almost still,
They breathed, "She holds you against your will.
Take up your dagger, and slay her now."
Said the last leaves on the cold bough.

He took his dagger, as if impelled.
To the roots, in shadow. The warm blood welled.

At the roots, in shadow, the woman sank.
The leaves sighed, and the tree drank.

The blood was offered. The man was free,
He dug a grave close under the tree.

He did her low in the earth, and crept
Barefoot to bed while the child slept.

And in the morning, he told the child,
How walking late in the moonlit wild

The woman wandered, and lost her way.
And alone together they two must stay.

She might return with the spring, he said.
But the child, in horror, thought, She is dead!

Yet spoke no word of the truth he knew.
The days passed, and the child grew.

A time came, though it came not soon.
A still night of the full moon.

On his cold pillow the boy awoke.
He thought he heard a voice that spoke.

He fled through shadow, and ran barefoot
Through long grass to the tree's root.

The leaves moved softly above his head.
"Is love forgotten?" the leaves said.

"Is love forgotten, that used to be
So deep, so dark, between you and me?"

The tears of the orphan fell like rain.
"Oh! Mother" he cried "Have you come again?"

He kissed the trunk of the tree night cold.
"Are you the mother I loved of old?"

"Yes, I your mother still love you true."
And on his body the leaves rained dew.

"A deed on Earth remains to be done.
Avenge, avenge me, my mortal son.

Upon a mound under moonlit skies.
Look. Deeply sleeping, my slayer lies.

Take up his dagger and kill him there."
Said the lonely spirit evil and fair.

The child listened and could not tell
That the mother who once had loved him well,

In death lay silent, while this that spoke
Was the soul alive in the age old oak.

The soul the Druids had feared and fed
With blood fresh leaping, and warm and red.

How could he vision, or how suppose.
When dew fell chilly, when mist arose

And tilled the vile with a white flood.
The ghost in the great tree dreamed of blood.

And stirred, and thirsted, with craving sighs.
To drink the wine of the sacrifice.

Around the bole of the oak he crept
To the low mound where the man slept.

He felt no pity to spare or save.
The man lay stretched on the woman's grave.

He took the dagger, and stabbed him deep.
He gave the sleeper eternal sleep.

The blood gushed forth, to the roots it sank.
And deeply, gladly, the tree drank.

But no sweet wraith came offering joy,
Nor kiss of peace to the awe struck boy.

No shining phantom drew near to bliss.
He felt, in horror, his loneliness.

He felt the silence.
He sensed the sound of blood fast sinking into the ground.

He saw the thirsting, primeval tree.
He saw, and trembled, and turned to flee

Far down the valley, where mist might hide
His head from the dark boughs vast and wide.

He fled light foot, but he felt his sin
Like a magic circle that ringed him in.

At early dawn, when the dew appeared.
He came once more to the place he feared.

He came once more to his huge desire.
The house of his youth he set on tire.

He burned the house, and his father's flesh.
A prince in the world of loneliness

He lived remote, and mad in the wild.
And he would laugh like a careless child,

And climb high up in the radiant dome
Of the oak tree palace, his only home;

And swing all day in its branches strong,
And drown its voices with crazed sweet song.

His laughter echoed like bells rung shrill
Both' night and day on the silent hill.

And those who heard it, far down the vale,
Crossed themselves while their cheeks grew pale.

A time came, though it came not soon,
A still night of the full moon.

He took the dagger, now dark with rust,
Deep in his heart the blade he thrust.

He died with laughter still on his mouth.
The tree, for the last time, slaked its drouth.

Time blows like wind o'er the grassy lea,
And alone on the green hill lives the tree.

And strangers notice no more, no less,
Than a tree alone in the wilderness,
Than a ruined cottage with fire black stones,
And a tittle circle of fragile bones.

But legend whispers, and all men fear
To leave the valley and venture near.

Yes, even birds in the wild wood free,
Avoid the shade of that ancient tree.

When deep in silence the world is drowned,
No wild thing moving, no voice, no sound,

But the winter wind in the vaulted sky,
When the time of the old, old, rites draws 'nigh;

Then beneath the starry, enormous skies,
The tree spirit trembles and cries.

The frozen branches where no leaves cling,
Lift their arms to the dark and sing

A song of lust in the blood's dark praise.
The wind blows, and the stars blaze.

The green voice, terrible, and divine,
Roars its thirst for the sacred wine.

*

Miss Laura

"Black, black, black, is the colour of my true love's hair." Traditional song.

“Black is the colour of my true love’s skin.
White girl, black man, where is the sin?”

Sweet talk murmured by Miss Laura’s mouth.
Lynch fires howling up and down the South!

Up the avenue gentlemen ride.
Want Miss Laura for their golden bride.

Ladies so pretty don’t grow on trees.
Rich men, poor men, down on their knees.

Rich men, poor men, every man white.
Miss Laura, lovely as the morning light,

Who will you choose to take to your bed?
“The black boy standing at my horse’s head.”

Ancient avenues, and haunts of gloom.
Miss Laura’s riding with her darky groom,

Riding slowly under shrouds of moss
To the brimming river that the dusk blows across.

They walk their horses in the sundown glow,
Beside Savannah where it ripples slow.

Hear what she whispers in her muted voice,
And tell me truly if that man had a choice?
Oh! tell me truly if that man had a choice?

“Look, my Honey, on Savannah’s wave,
Still be flowing when we lie in the grave.

Lovers walking in the future’s light,
Will care no longer if they’re black or white.
Oh! care no longer if they’re black or white.

Love me Honey, where Savannah flows.
Love me naked. Throw away my clothes.
My body’s open, and I want you in.
Black is the colour of my true love’s skin.”

Early morning when the white men came,
Running in packs, and carrying flame.

She heard them running, then she shrieked, and said,
“Black boy forced me to his savage bed!
Forced Miss Laura to his jungle bed!”

They lit the faggots, and the flame licked high.
He cried “Miss Laura!” with his last loud cry.

For her was the last wild glance of his eyes.
’Ere the blare of his burning shook the sun from the skies!
Black man burning shook the sun from the skies!

Miss Laura’s talking, and she can’t keep still.
From her pretty lips the love words spill.

Talking, talking, with a tongue of fire
That must speak passion and can never tire.

Folk who wander by that river’s brink,
Just when the red sun’s aiming to sink,

Under the branches where the moss moves slow,
Hear Miss Laura speaking hoarse and low.

“Love me, Honey, where Savannah flows.
Love me naked. Throw away my clothes.

My body’s open, and I want you in.
Black, black, black, black is the colour
Of my true love’s skin!”

*

The Bells of Dis

"Is it dark down there, Prince Horrendous? Dark down there with Betsy Skull?
Is it dark down there

Where the grass grows through the hair? Is it dark in the under-land of Null?" "There is light down here, Perfect Stranger, Light that frolics round my throne,
Light down here,

Past the horror and the fear.

There is light in the ultimate bone."

"Is it silent in your kingdom, Prince Horrendous?" "Yes, quiet, Perfect Stranger, down in Null. In my palace underground Not a sound, not a sound, But the sweet, fainting sighs of Betsy Skull."

I am coming to your kingdom, Prince Horrendous, Coming late or soon to claim my own
Stolen bride, stolen bride.
I will snatch her from your side

By the red light that flickers in the bone." "No, no, no, no, Perfect Stranger!
From Betsy Skull I cannot part. The bells of mighty Dis
Cry out forbidding this,

The great bells and my jealous heart."

"I will overthrow your kingdom, Prince Horrendous, I will seize upon the lady of my bliss.
I will make your darling mine Where the bones in splendor shine, Though warned of doom by all the bells of Dis." "No, no, no, no, Perfect Stranger!
Betsy Skull I will love, and love alone, Stay away, stay away,
In your house of common clay

From the radiant palace of the bone." "Silence in your kingdom, Prince Horrendous, Silence and the bones shining bright.
When I cry to my dear

She will hear, she will hear,

She will hear in the subterranean night!

Coming down, coming down, Prince Horrendous. Like the sun sinking low I'm coming down.
I will wed with Betsy Skull In the underland of Null Though bells rave all around the town. All around, all around,
With an earth-quake shaking sound, Though bells bark all around the town."

*

The Winds of Spring

The winds of spring were blowing fresh;
The weather, warm and fine.

The Wolf sat down to write between The candles and the wine.
The Wolf wrote to Forget-me-not,
Upon a fair, clean page,
"Where are the heads! Where are the heads Of the men I slew in rage?

Go burn them in the blowing fire Beside the sunset sea.
The Law is tip-toe on my trail, I fear the gallows tree.
I know that for those severed heads You cared no single jot.
Yet all was done for love of you, Divine Forget-me-not." 

Forget-me-not wrote to the Wolf, It was her teasing way,
"The heads hang on the berry bush, And that 'v where they'll stay.
Yes, that is where they'll stay, dear Wolf, Till they begin to rot.
So fare you well in London Town, From sweet Forget-me-not."

The Wolf bit on his great quill pen. "Infernal jade," he wrote.
"Pull down the heads. Pull down the heads Or hemp is at my throat.
Go hide the heads. Go hide the heads, Or sure as skylarks sing
I'll struggle on the gallows tree
To breathe the winds of spring."

Forget-me-not replied, "Dear Wolf, I have not much to say.
The heads are in the river mud Near where the school boys play.
Some likely lad may catch a head upon his fishing line.
The winds of spring am blowing fresh. The weather's warm and fine."

Half frantic was the Wolf, his face
White in the candle flame.
And now his fingers trembled so
He scarce could write her name.
"Of all the heads, of all the heads, I know you loved but one.
Keep Nathan's head, Forget-me-not, And let God's will be done!" 

Forget-me-not wrote calm and quick. She used a grey goose quill.
"The heads are under churchyard grass Where they can work no ill.
But I am dancing in the fire Beside the sunset sea,
With Nathan's head, with Nathan's head, The head you promised me.
Yes I am dancing in the fire
Beside the sea waves cold.
The King will give for Nathan's head
Its weight in minted gold.
Its weight in minted gold, dear Wolf, I'll spend it while you swing
Now high, now low, on the gallows tree, Tossed by the winds of spring."

The Wolf has blotted with his fist His last impassioned page.
He plunged a pen-knife through his heart And died in lonely rage.
He wailed aloud, "Forget-me-not!" Before his soul took wing.
His blood was blown about her head
By all the winds of spring.