POETS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

THE COWBOY POEM IS A TRADITION FROM THE TRAIL DRIVES of the late 1800s, when men stayed out on the range for months and entertained themselves around the campfire by cultivating a storytelling style with a desert-dry wit. Written in clear and Spartan prose, these odes to cowboy life recall broncos that wouldn’t be broken, senoritas who couldn’t be tamed, roping and branding and going to town. Often they celebrate the wide-open spirit of the American West, its prairies, deserts, rivers and valleys, its names like places in the heart--the Cimarron, the Badlands, Golden Gulch, the Great Divide.

Utah folklorist Hal Cannon has collected the best of both traditional and contemporary cowboy verse and sluiced it into three volumes published by Peregrine Smith Books of Salt Lake City--”Cowboy Poetry: A Gathering,” “Songs of the Sage: The Poetry of Curley Fletcher” and “Rhymes of the Ranges: A New Collection of the Poems of Bruce Kiskaddon.” Cannon is the founder of the annual Cowboy Poetry Gathering, held for the last three winters in Elko, Nev. “This year we invited more than 200 cowboy poets from 17 Western states and Canada,” he says. “All of them were selected by their state’s folklorists, and they’re all genuine cowboys or ranchers--that’s a prerequisite.” The audience, too, is made up of cowboys, not tourists. “That’s how we maintain our authenticity,” Cannon adds.

The poems on these pages are indicative of the cowboys’ range of subject matter and style. “The Strawberry Roan” was written in 1914 by Curley Fletcher, one of the genre’s most popular practitioners. Bruce Kiskaddon, who left the range to drive chariots in the silent film “Ben-Hur” in 1926, spent the rest of his life writing poems as a bellhop in the Mayflower Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. James Barton Adams was a 19th-Century Denver-based poet; Billy Fouts is a 25-year-old Sonora resident who was selected as one of three California representatives to the Cowboy Poetry Gathering last January.

THE STRAWBERRY ROAN By Curley Fletcher I’m a-layin’ around, just spendin’ muh time, Out of a job an’ ain’t holdin’ a dime, When a feller steps up, an’ sez, “I suppose That you’re uh bronk fighter by the looks uh yure clothes.” “Yuh figures me right--I’m a good one,” I claim “Do you happen tuh have any bad uns tuh tame?” He sez he’s got one, uh bad un tuh buck, An’ fur throwin’ good riders, he’s had lots uh luck. . . . “He offers uh ten spot. Sez I, “I’m yure man, Cause the bronk never lived, that I couldn’t fan; The hoss never lived, he never drew breath, That I couldn’t ride till he starved plum tuh death. . . .” (The cowboy takes a ride on the Strawberry Roan.) He goes up t’ward the East, an’ comes down t’ward the West, Tuh stay in his middle, I’m doin’ muh best. He sure is frog walkin’, he heaves a big sigh, He only lacks wings fur tuh be on the fly. . . . He hits on all fours, an’ suns up his side, I don’t see how he keeps from shedding his hide. I loses muh stirrups an’ also muh hat, I’m grabbin’ for leather an’ blind as uh bat. . . . Then I knows that the hosses I ain’t able tuh ride Is some of them livin’--they haven’t all died. But I bets all muh money they ain’t no man alive, Kin stay with that bronk when he makes that high dive. From “Songs of the Sage: The Poetry of Curley Fletcher,” preface by Hal Cannon. Copyright 1986 Gibbs M. Smith Inc., Layton, Utah. Reprinted with permission.

WHEN THEY’RE FINISHED SHIPPING CATTLE IN THE FALL By Bruce Kiskaddon . . . When you make the camp that night, Though the fire is burnin’ bright, Yet nobody seems to have a lot to say. In the spring you sung and hollered, Now you git your supper swallered And you crawl into your blankets right away. Then you watch the stars a shinin’ Up there in the soft blue linin’ And you sniff the frosty night air clear and cool. You can hear the night hoss shiftin’ And your memory starts a driftin’ To the little village where you went to school. With its narrow gravel streets And the kids you used to meet, And the common where you used to play baseball. Now you’re far away and draggin’ To the home ranch with the wagon-- For they’ve finished shippin’ cattle in the fall.

From “Rhymes of the Ranges: A New Collection of the Poems of Bruce Kiskaddon,” edited and with an introduction by Hal Cannon. Copyright 1987 Gibbs M. Smith Inc., Layton, Utah. Reprinted with permission.

THE COWBOY’S DANCE SONG By James Barton Adams Now you can’t expect a cowboy to agitate his shanks In the etiquettish fashion of aristocratic ranks, When he’s always been accustomed to shake the heel and toe In the rattling ranchers’ dances where much etiquette don’t go. You can bet I set there laughing in quite an excited way, A giving of the squinters an astonished sort of play, When I happened into Denver and was asked to take a prance In the smooth and easy measures of a high-toned dance. When I got among the ladies in their frocks of fleecy white, And the dudes togged out in wrappings that was simply out of sight, Tell you what, I was embarrassed and somehow I couldn’t keep from feeling like a burro in a purty flock of sheep. Every step I took was awkward and I blushed a flaming red, Like the upper decorations of a turkey gobbler’s head. And the ladies said ‘twas seldom they had ever had a chance To see an old-time puncher at a high-toned dance. I cut me out a heifer from that bunch of purty girls, And I yanked her to the center to dance those dreamy whirls. She laid her head upon my breast in a loving sort of way And we drifted off to heaven while the band began to play. . . . When they struck the old cotillion on that music bill of fare, Every bit of devil in me seemed to bust out on a tear; I fetched a cowboy war whoop and I started in to rag Till the rafters started sinking and the floor began to sag. My partner she got sea sick, and then she staggered for a seat, And I balanced to the next one but she dodged me slick and neat. Tell you what, I took the creases from my go-to-meeting pants When I put the cowboy trimmings on that high-toned dance.

From “Cowboy Poetry: A Gathering ,” edited and with an introduction by Hal Cannon. Copyright 1985 Gibbs M. Smith Inc., Layton, Utah. Reprinted with permission.

HE FOLLOWED THAT OLD CATTLE CALL By Billy Fouts Now, he was a young cowboy way up in the mountains And he was workin’ a-horseback for his pay And she was still in school and a-workin’ part-time And had their first child on the way And sometimes at night, there beneath the starlight I could hear him quietly say “Babe, you know I must go, for it’s turnin’ springtime And I follow that old cattle call. But I’ll be returnin’, leave a candle burnin’ And I’ll ride back to you this fall.” Now it came to pass they had two fine children He still rode out every spring And sometimes she’d think back upon their first year When she’d touch her gold wedding ring When the nights would drive by Or her babies would cry She’d hold them close and she’d sing. “Babes, you know he must go, for it’s turnin’ springtime And he follows that old cattle call. But he’ll be returnin’, I’ve left a candle burnin’ He’ll ride back to us this fall. . . .” Then it came one spring when he didn’t ride out And he’d seen his last mountain sky And he held close his lady, as he lay on his sickbed Knowing well it was his turn to die One mornin’ at dawn, my pardner passed on And he said this final good-bye: “Babe, you know I must go, for it’s turnin’ springtime And I follow that old cattle call. But I’ll be returnin’, leave a candle burnin’ And we’ll ride off together this fall.”

Reprinted with the permission of the author.

UNOFFICIAL HOST OF THE COWBOY POETS

WADDIE MITCHELL IS A purebred Nevada cowboy. “I was born into a ranching family,” he says. “Never known anything else.” His father owned a ranch 60 miles south of Elko. The nearest neighbor and telephone were 14 miles away. Today Mitchell manages the Stake Ranch about 30 miles outside of Elko, where he lives with his wife, Tootie, their five children and two foster children.

At 36, Mitchell is one of the West’s best-known cowboy poets. He’s appeared on “The Tonight Show” three times and is the unofficial host of the Cowboy Poetry Gathering. Last year, he won the Nevada Governor’s Arts Award for his contribution to oral literature. Mitchell says his interest in cowboy poetry came from growing up around cowboys and ranch hands and without television. “We entertained each other,” he says. “There was a whole lot of storytelling going on around the supper table and in the bunkhouse.”

THE THROW-BACK By Waddie Mitchell ‘Twas the end of the nineteenth century When the cowboy era peak’d, An’ a motley clan of horse-back men Perfected a technique Of handlin’ and movin’ cattle, A type raised primarily for meat, Thus insurin’ a hungry young nation There would always be plenty to eat. . . . Now the problem was gettin’ the product to market At a price all parties could pay, So unlike Europe, where only royalty ate meat, The common man could have beef everyday. But the obstacles seem’d near insurmountable, For the miles in between were not kind. There were rivers to swim an’ deserts to cross, An’ water and forage to find To keep the animals strong and healthy So they could walk twenty miles a day, An’ get to the railway before the snow flew To be loaded and shipped on their way. Now to do this they’d have to be able To hire a man who would sleep on the ground For seven long months out of one given year For forty a month, and found.

(He continues listing the requirements of a good cowboy--owning his own saddle “that cost at least two months pay,” eating a regular diet of biscuits, beans and meat, and knowing how to rope and ride.)

Now you’d think with this list of requirements That the job would’ve been hard to fill, But the human race now an’ then breeds a throw-back, And for some reason these men fit the bill. . . . Oh, we still have some of their problems, Mother Nature still kicks at our rumps. The job will never be conducive to comfort, But you learn not to notice the bumps. But now days they’ve throw’d us some ringers, New problems that’s kick’d in our slats, Like computers, the futures and unions, And worst of all . . . bureaucrats. And the human race still breeds a throw-back, From their predecessor’s mold they are pour’d, And they’re still puttin’ beef in the market That the common man can afford. But I can’t see that lastin’ forever, For we keep gettin’ kick’d in the teeth, An’ if you don’t think you’re gettin’ a bargain, Pard, Just go abroad an’ order some beef.

From “Cowboy Poetry: A Gathering ,” edited and with an introduction by Hal Cannon. Copyright 1985 Gibbs M. Smith Inc., Layton, Utah. Reprinted with permission.

THE ‘LUNATIC FRINGE’

BAXTER BLACK HAS BEEN called “a combination of Ogden Nash and Festus” and says he represents the “lunatic fringe of cowboy poetry,” which describes his sideways sense of humor.

Black gave up a career as a veterinarian to write verse. He and Colorado poet Nyle Henderson are among the few cowboy poets making a living with their literary art. Raised in Las Cruces, N.M., Black graduated from the University of Colorado. He lives on an 18-acre spread in Brighton, Colo., with his wife, Cindy Lou, and their daughter, Jennifer, 8. Though he does rope and ride, he says: “I’m a better cowboy poet than a cowboy.”

Black writes a syndicated newspaper column, “On the Edge of Common Sense,” which he says is “mostly humorous, occasionally political and accidentally informative.”

COWBOY LOGIC By Baxter Black One morning bright and early we wuz goin’ down the road. The night before I’d missed my steer and Donny Boy got throwed. But we wuz feelin’ better when ol’ Hard Luck bummed a ride. He climbed up in the camper shell and settled down inside. The pickup bed was fulla junk, our rodeoin’ stuff. But Hard Luck never said a word ‘cause there was room enough. The sun rose in our rear view on I-20, headed west. And Hard Luck dozed then fell asleep. I guess he needed rest. Then somewhere on the freeway we almost hit a bus. I hit the brakes and skidded nearly killin’ all of us. Ol’ Hard Luck’s head bounced off the back, it sounded like a shot! Like someone threw a bowling ball against a cast iron pot. “You reckon we should check ‘im, Don?” “Nope,” was all he said. “He hit that sucker awful hard, I think he might be dead.” A look came in his beady eyes, like I had hay fer brains. His logic was pure cowboy. While I listened, he explained: “There ain’t no point in stoppin’ now. No reason on this earth. If he’s alive, he’ll be okay until we reach Ft. Worth. And if he’s dead as Coley’s goat, he’ll sure be hard to lift. He’ll be a damn sight easier to move when he gits stiff!”

From “Coyote Cowboy Poetry,” by Baxter Black. Copyright 1986 by Baxter Black. Reprinted with permission of the author.