John Joseph "Jack" Hogan was born in 1910 in Troy, Montana, the son of John and Bridget's son William and a brother of the writer and mystic Harold Hogan. He was graduated from Gonzaga High School in Spokane and attended college there for two years, but had to withdraw because of the Great Depression. He worked in mining and logging camps till he was 29 with his brothers Harold and Arthur, then relocated to Washington, D. C. There he rented a room and spent two weeks teaching himself to type. He began working for the federal government as a GS-l clerk-typist; three years later he was inducted into the Army and sent to Persia where he served for three years during World War II as secretary to Brigadier General Donald P. Booth. On his return he resumed work as a civilian for the Navy Department; when he retired in 1972, he was Chief of Naval Personnel for the Washington, D. C. area. This is one of his poems. SAGA OF SAINT PATRICK In ancient days the emerald isle Was overrun with crawling things. The serpents and the centipedes Were commonplace as Irish kings. At funerals, at christenings, At weddings and at wakes, Each festive scene was always marred By scores of uninvited snakes. The things went on from bad to worse And finally reached a sorry pass When Harps scarce dared to leave their homes For fear of snakes among the grass. The Micks, for once, were all agreed That something must be done, and quick. But no one seemed to know just what -- A common failing of the Mick. Then up spoke "Flannel-Mouth" Pat Burke, Who swore he knew a certain way To free old Erin of her curse And banish all the snakes away. With some misgiving, be it said, A law was passed to give old Burke Authority to go ahead With his exterminating work. Well, Patrick sized the problem up And poured a quart of poteen down To stimulate his powers of thought, And then he really went to town. He sent an order through the land, And posted it on every tree, An order stating that each snake Could have its fill of poteen -- free! The snakes, of course, were overjoyed At thoughts of such an unexpected treat, Nor ever stopped to count the cost, But swilled the potent beverage neat. For seven days these serpents toped On nectar fit for Irish kings, But on the eighth d.t.'s set in -- The serpents started seeing things! Now, when an Irishman has bibed Too freely of the native brew, Quite commonly his sight is cursed With phantom snakes of emerald hue. With snakes, of course, the same holds true, Save that the nightmare is reversed. In alcoholic phantasy Their sight with Irishmen is cursed! The celtic man, at best, is not A spectacle of sheer delight, And in the serpents' phantasy It seemed a dread and horrid sight. With rolling eyes and lashing tails They headed for the rocky shore; Plunged in the sea and disappeared From Erin's haunts for evermore. CONTINUED |
 |
|