The Political Forum

MR. FLOOD'S PARTY
Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)

Edwin Robinson is one of my all time favorite poets. I have returned to his verse so often over the years that he is, to me, like an old pair of slippers that always feels just right when you put them on, even if you have neglected to wear them for a few years. Except these slippers can send unexpected chills down your spine, as I am reminded each time I read Robinson's riveting poem "John Brown," or his marvelously tender "Aunt Imogen."

I don't know when I first became of aware of Robinson's poetry. My guess is that it was in Miss Sponheim's American Literature class in my junior year in high school. Probably it had to do with "Richard Cory," which is almost certainly Robinson's best known poem. What I do know is that Richard Cory, Reuben Bright, Cliff Klingenhagen Miniver Cheevy, Luke Havengal, and Old Eben Flood have drifted in and out of my consciousness many times over the years, always bringing pleasure, along with a strong sense of melancholy, whenever I return to read about their lives, troubles and fates.

Robinson is, without question, one of America's greatest poets. In the 1920s he was so popular with the general public that his forty thousand word epic poem Tristram was selected as the monthly pick by the Literary Guild. It received unstinted praise from the critics of the day, outsold most of the year's best selling novels, and won Robinson his third Pulitzer Prize in a six-year period.

Needless to say, with a towering figure like Robinson I had many great poems from which to choose. In fact, as I was perusing a lengthy list of my own favorites, it occurred to me that I could probably keep a "Robinson-Poem-A-Week" project alive for at least a year and never disappoint a single reader.

In the end, I chose "Mr. Flood's Party" because I have always liked it very much; because I believe it will serve as a great introduction of Robinson's work to those readers who are not familiar with him; and because it will also provide a warm welcome home to those who grew up reading Robinson as I did, but haven't had the pleasure of revisiting his poetry for a while.

As with most of Robinson's poems, to fully appreciate this one, read it aloud.

Mr. Flood's Party

Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will."
Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn,
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees,
Where friends of other days had honored him,
A phantom salutation of the dead
Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.

Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He set the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,
And with his hand extended paused again:

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this
In a long time; and many a change has come
To both of us, I fear, since last it was
We had a drop together. Welcome home!"
Convivially returning with himself,
Again he raised the jug up to the light;
And with an acquiescent quaver said:
"Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.

"Only a very little, Mr. Flood--
For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do."
So, for the time, apparently it did,
And Eben evidently thought so too;
For soon amid the silver loneliness
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,
Secure, with only two moons listening,
Until the whole harmonious landscape rang--

"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered; and the song being done,
He raised again the jug regretfully
And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below--
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.

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