Skip to main content

A Man With No Shirt

Two score and seven years ago--
you may take that to be 47 years ago--
I sat in a library carrel in the middle of the night,
parceling and piecing my dissertation together,
when I read something sane to keep my head
while all those about me were losing theirs.
I memorized it without even intending to:

And I will take off my shirt and tear it,
and make a razzly-dazzly noise,
and the people will look at me and say,
that man is tearing his shirt.

It had been cautiously attributed to Carl Sandburg,
and three things seemed to make that plausible:
"the people", "razzly-dazzly", and the pedestrian response
to an impetuous thing to do.

I might have written more than one chapter
to an undying dissertation while I tried to track down
the source of that quote.  In addition to reading
enough Carl Sandburg to raise me well above
the academic trough in which I had been wallowing,
I thumbed a hundred volumes in which the people
tore their pedestrian shirts, without art.

No luck!

When, a score and more years later--
you may take that to mean the late nineteen-eighties--
I tried to use the computer to search for the words,
I found nothing, still.

This morning, I tried again,
perhaps because I myself am
four score and almost four,
and this cannot go on forever.

I found it!  It was Carl Sandburg who said almost that.
It was not "razzly dazzly", but "ripping razzly",
and as usual Sandburg said it better.

It comes from Smoke and Steel, 1922:

                            III.  Broken-Face Gargoyles

                                             5.  Shirt

             My shirt is a token and symbol,
             more than a cover for sun and rain,
             my shirt is a signal,
             and a teller of souls.

             I can take off my shirt and tear it,
             and so make a ripping razzly noise,
             and the people will say,
             "Look at him tear his shirt."

             I can keep my shirt on.
             I can stick around and sing like a little bird
             and look 'em all in the eye and never be fazed.
                I can keep my shirt on.


I can scarcely keep my shirt on!
In fact, I do not have a shirt on,
nor much beyond slippers and a robe;
slippers because of scorpions,
and a robe, because.

What a ripping razzly day!
The people might look at me and say,
"That man has no shirt."

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Friends-- My step-father of 35 years died this morning. His name was Conrad Royksund. He was 86 years old. He was born into poverty on a farm near Puyallup, WA. He was the first member of his family to attend college and earned a PhD from the University of Chicago. He paid his way through all of that by fishing in Alaska. He spent his professional career as a college professor. I met him when I was just 3 years old and don't actually have any memories of my life befor e he was in it. He was intimidatingly smart, funny as hell, and worked his ass off. He taught me to meet people with kindness and decency until I was certain they could not be trusted. He taught me to meet ideas with carving knives until I was certain they could. I will remember him as one of the bravest, most curious, and funniest people I have ever met. He left this world with a satisfied mind. We are so grateful. Dan Hubbard

Caliche Busters and Government Work

When I was young and both stronger and smarter than I am now, I put my might and brain to work doing nothing useful, unless it might be thought that hand/foot/eye coordination might come in handy.  Those were skills to be learned and practiced.   I found an iron bar our grandfather had shaped in his blacksmith shop.  He took old car, truck, or wagon axles, and made tools from them for digging post holes.  He sharpened one end to a tip, and the other to a blade.  Washington State, like many places, had a hard layer of soil, probably created by water and limestone, or some such materials, that made digging holes a miserable chore.  The bar chipped through the natural concrete so that a shovel could take it up.   I found Grandpa's iron bar, and since I was young and dumb and strong--or so I thought--decided to punch a hole down to hardpan and ultimate truth.  I knew how to do that.  Raise the bar vertically with both hands, and then slam in straight down.  On the second try, aimi

The Sea is Rising

Let us just step back:  two hundred and fifty years ago, or so, the ships of England and Spain had drifted onto a whole new continent, as they saw it, from far north to a savagely cold south; pole to pole, as if there were such things. Millions of people already lived here, some of them still hunters and gatherers; some of them very wealthy, indeed!  Gold and silver stolen from the southern Americas funded Spanish and English dreams. There was land, lots of land, under starry skies above, rich land, and oil and coal and iron ore.  The whole western world learned how to build industries not on simple muscle power, but on steam and oil.  We farmed, too, of course.  All we needed was cheap labor--slave labor from Africa, mostly, so the ships came with slave labor.  Chinese labor built railroad beds where there had been rock cliffs. Europeans, long used to killing each other for good, religious reasons, brought their religious savagery with them.  Even when all they wanted to do w