I have a book that I picked up at a book sale a long time ago; a book of poems that seems to be the only one in existence, at least online. I've tried to find information about the poet, and googled him and the person who the book is dedicated to with no luck at all.
So now, because search engines are so nice and someone else might have a copy of this book (if there are any other copies) and might be looking for the same information, I'm going to beg the poet's forgiveness and post one of his poems here.
(Or, maybe the family of the poet might stumble across this; you never know!)
The book is called Crumbs, and it's by Thomas Ashley Walker. It was privately printed and bound by E. Steinmann & Co., Bookbinders, Cincinnati, Ohio, making me think that the poet was or is local.
The only mention of a Thomas Ashley Walker in the Cincinnati area I've been able to find is from this church in Glendale, but I'm not sure this is the same person. The timeline might be right, however. There's more information here. (He is in the middle of the middle row.)
Either way, here's the inscription: "For Margaret Rogan in appreciation of her loyalty and friendship during the past twelve years. Ashley Walker, Thanksgiving 1957."
And here's my favorite poem of the bunch:
A Connubial Complaint
Darling, I could love you with a passion fierce and hot,
If I could be convinced that in the future you would not
Give away the trousers that endeared themselves to me
By their frowziness and blousiness and bagginess-at-knee;
Give away the antique shirts that I can always wear
With absolute assurance of getting lots of air;
Give away my battered shoes, all green and red with paint
(Dear departed foot-gear, how I love you now you ain't!)
Darling, I could sing your praise in accents quite divine,
If you'd give away your own old duds, but keep your hands off mine.
Darling when my underwear is buttonless and dipping
In undulating fullness; when the seams are slowly ripping
So that geographic segments of my lean and lanky frame
Cry out for more of privacy and less of public fame.
Tell me, does it seem to you quite feminine and sweet
That your pantalets and scantalets should be so nice and neat?
Tell me, as you watch your movie hero bare his soul,
Do you ever stop to wonder if his underwear is whole?
Darling, you're a marvel, but you often make me think
That a man without his buttons is indeed "the missing link."
Darling, when we wedded, you assured me you would care
For just my splendid manly self; but soon I was aware
That you wanted me on hand when water pipes went out of whack
And expected me to operate a hammer and a tack.
All winter, so it seemed, I was to be a furnace shaker,
And in the spring, a cleanup man and fancy garden raker;
A painter, window wiper, and a clever electrician,
A paperhanger, errand boy and budget statistician.
Darling, you're delightful--but till now I never knew
Just what you meant by saying I was "everything" to you.
If anyone has any information at all about the poet, this book, or anything, really, please email me and let me know!
So now, because search engines are so nice and someone else might have a copy of this book (if there are any other copies) and might be looking for the same information, I'm going to beg the poet's forgiveness and post one of his poems here.
(Or, maybe the family of the poet might stumble across this; you never know!)
The book is called Crumbs, and it's by Thomas Ashley Walker. It was privately printed and bound by E. Steinmann & Co., Bookbinders, Cincinnati, Ohio, making me think that the poet was or is local.
The only mention of a Thomas Ashley Walker in the Cincinnati area I've been able to find is from this church in Glendale, but I'm not sure this is the same person. The timeline might be right, however. There's more information here. (He is in the middle of the middle row.)
Either way, here's the inscription: "For Margaret Rogan in appreciation of her loyalty and friendship during the past twelve years. Ashley Walker, Thanksgiving 1957."
And here's my favorite poem of the bunch:
A Connubial Complaint
Darling, I could love you with a passion fierce and hot,
If I could be convinced that in the future you would not
Give away the trousers that endeared themselves to me
By their frowziness and blousiness and bagginess-at-knee;
Give away the antique shirts that I can always wear
With absolute assurance of getting lots of air;
Give away my battered shoes, all green and red with paint
(Dear departed foot-gear, how I love you now you ain't!)
Darling, I could sing your praise in accents quite divine,
If you'd give away your own old duds, but keep your hands off mine.
Darling when my underwear is buttonless and dipping
In undulating fullness; when the seams are slowly ripping
So that geographic segments of my lean and lanky frame
Cry out for more of privacy and less of public fame.
Tell me, does it seem to you quite feminine and sweet
That your pantalets and scantalets should be so nice and neat?
Tell me, as you watch your movie hero bare his soul,
Do you ever stop to wonder if his underwear is whole?
Darling, you're a marvel, but you often make me think
That a man without his buttons is indeed "the missing link."
Darling, when we wedded, you assured me you would care
For just my splendid manly self; but soon I was aware
That you wanted me on hand when water pipes went out of whack
And expected me to operate a hammer and a tack.
All winter, so it seemed, I was to be a furnace shaker,
And in the spring, a cleanup man and fancy garden raker;
A painter, window wiper, and a clever electrician,
A paperhanger, errand boy and budget statistician.
Darling, you're delightful--but till now I never knew
Just what you meant by saying I was "everything" to you.
If anyone has any information at all about the poet, this book, or anything, really, please email me and let me know!
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