How cowboy poetry has defined a way of life

Cowboy poetry fans and performers gather each summer at the Bear Creek Schoolhouse near Cameron, Montana. PHOTO COURTESY

ROBERT CELECIA

The odyssey of the west

HOW COWBOY POETRY HAS DEFINED A WAY OF LIFE

By JANA BOUNDS reporter@lonepeaklookout.com

When days were warmer, Lyle Qualls sat in a rocking chair outside the Bale of Hay Saloon sporting a bandana and a handlebar mustache – looking every bit a biker and nothing like a cowboy. In fact, one might not have known he was a cowboy if he had not taken a deep breath and animatedly recited a poem about ranch life. Thirty years of cowboy poems are rattling around in his brain and he is able to tell them without missing a beat. In that culture many cowboys memorize their own poems and also those of friends or mentors, as a sign of respect or in memoriam. It is safe to say that many such poets have hundreds of poems written to memory.

The oral tradition celebrated by ancient cultures is in many ways continued by cowboys. The cowboy poetry tradition goes back over 150 years and is more American than apple pie.

The romance of the Old West – driven home by film, songs and paintings has been solidified in the American consciousness. Perpetuated by belt buckles earned by vanquishing beasts and by modern television series and films, the western way is interwoven with a mentality of toughness and independence – testament to another time; memorializing the stuff of legends. The reality is actually exhaustive work wrought with unpredictability. The land is harsh, the animals massive, the threats real.

Now, stewards of a culture steeped in tradition are fighting to keep it alive. Ranchers and cowboys are aging and according to National Geographic reporting, many from younger generations are not sold on investing in a life of hardship. They are especially leery of one that has rapidly escalating costs, no matter the nod to the generations before them. When the layers of tale and tradition are removed, what remains?

“There ain’t nothing romantic about looking at the south ends of 500 head of northbound cows,” Qualls said. “I had to get the Hell out of there. I wrote me a poem ‘cause I was lookin’ for a woman. It’s called, ‘Leavin’ the House and Lookin’ for a Spouse.’”

A few years ago, Qualls left his horses behind for the horsepower attached to his mint condition, mint colored Harley Davidson. His retirement years are made golden by travel and adventure. But he still discusses the past with a twinkle in his eye – a sense of nostalgia that no paper-pusher will likely ever know. The numerous cowboy poems he wrote speak to connection to the land, the high physical cost of the cowboy way, isolation, the search for connection, and even an ode to his favorite philandering cattle dog.

His venture into the poetry world came about with one part serendipity and one part necessity.

“I worked for a rancher and he was in the hospital and he wanted to know what was going on around there. Instead of writing him a note, I wrote it in poetic form,” he said.

Qualls dissected the nature of cowboy poems. There are rules. If the rules are not followed, then the poem falls flat with folks who have spent years perfecting their craft and often writing lines sporadically when working.

“Cowboy poetry has to do a few things: It has to tell a story. It has to rhyme. And if it’s humorous that’s a big plus,” Qualls explained. “I tried to write serious stuff and could never do it. It’s gotta have some humor or why? If it doesn’t make somebody smile or hopefully even laugh… if it’s going to make ‘em sad, I damn well wouldn’t tell ‘em.”

For Qualls, he carried a small notepad and a pen with him and would briefly pause to scrawl a line when riding his horse, mending a fence or baling hay, whenever inspiration struck. It became second nature to him, an extension of himself, intrinsic to his core, as easy and common as breathing and as much a part of his cowboy life as riding a horse. Some poems were written overnight, some pieced together line-by-line over the course of a week or more.

“But most of the stuff I wrote, it takes me longer to recite it than it did to come up with it in my head,” he said.

The history of cowboy poetry is all-American and a time-honored tradition. Just as ranchers are aging, so are cowboy poets. There is a quest to get the younger generation involved – to keep the tradition alive. Montana arguably has the second largest and second oldest gathering in the nation in Lewistown – now going back 35 years. The National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada, started in 1985, but there is evidence of earlier cowboy poetry events.

The culture of cowboying has been celebrated for over 150 years thanks to an oral tradition of poetry that spans generations. Long cattle drives after the Civil War initially spurred the art. Pictured on the right is the writer’s great grandfather, Jeff Green, when he was cowboying in Oklahoma. He died of tuberculosis at the age of 27.

PHOTO COURTESY JANA BOUNDS

“The fact is the first cowboy poetry event in Elko where polite society was invited took place April 3, 1926 when Badger Clark came to Elko and entertained a large crowd at the Elko High School Gymnasium,” according to the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering website.

The Old Pioneer Hotel has been witness to hundreds of years of poetry, “lies and lost dreams.”

“Some journalists say it’s the most honest and open-hearted festival in America. Ranchers say these few days contain the highest concentration of lies in any one place at any one time,” the website stated.

The organization claims that the inaugural large poetry gathering reinvigorated the artform and as a result many such gatherings took hold across the nation. There is an annual gathering in Cameron, Mont., that hosts a number of local poets.

The oldest published cowboy poetry dates back to the turn of the century and, according to David Stanley’s research in the Library of Congress, the art really gained traction during the long-distance cattle drives from Texas to Kansas that started shortly after the Civil War.

“As a genre, it has been influenced by literary works – the Bible, the Odyssey, Shakespeare’s plays, the works of the Beat Generation – by popular writers such as Robert W. Service and Rudyard Kipling, by Victorian popular culture and its fondness for schoolhouse and parlor recitations, by Hollywood cowboy films, by countrywestern music and by political developments from the advent of homesteading and barbed wire in the 19th century to contemporary vegetarianism, environmentalism and economic development associated with the ‘New West,’” the Library of Congress summary states.

Some cowboys were immigrants, the languages and cultural influences on the range were vast and the sole solidifying component from cowboy to cowboy was a life of hardship. The struggle was gritty and created the kinds of friendship often only otherwise forged on battlefields. Now, sociologists are looking at whether that connection to the land, to the elements, and engaged in mutual struggle is actually the key to happiness.

South Korea has been at the forefront of a study of how industrialization impacts mental health. The initial theory was that as countries climb out of third-world status, citizens would find more happiness as they leave the fields and enter offices for positions with higher pay and stability. That is not what is happening. Psychiatrist Gerald Klerman and psychologist Myrna Weissman believe they have discovered the reason: desk jobs foster alienation, whereas time with the land engaged in mutual struggle for a common goal creates a sense of community.

“Something about the process of industrialization is making people very unhappy,” Ori and Ram Brafman wrote in their book, “ Click: The Forces Behind How We Fully Engage with People, Work and Everything We Do”.

Perhaps the lure of the West is more than just something romanticized by art, maybe the West is an artform all its own. The toil, the dirt, the injuries, the struggle – all of it might equal way more than cowboy hats and belt buckles or some form of homage to toughness and tradition.

Destined to Cook

By Bryce Angell

I made an observation, standin’ back behind the grill. I stirred the pancake batter. Thought, “This job sure ain’t no thrill.” When the cowboys get together for a week out on the trail. I’m designated as the cook. At times, I’d like to bail. Now let me take you back, lets’ say, some fifty years or so. I wrangled for my father. I was young and fit to go. We were out of bed ‘fore daylight feedin’ horses hay and grain. And cinchin’ up the saddles, prayin’ hard that it don’t rain. The smell of eggs and bacon put my nose up in the air. My father was the cook, back then, none better I could swear. But time has forced her change on me. I never thought I’d cook. Now I’m flippin’ eggs and bacon. Sometimes feel like I’ve been took. Cuz I watch the younger cowboys ride all day and not complain. I only lift one saddle, but my back sure feels the pain. Those cowboys make it easy when they climb up on their horse. Heck, I have to stack a rock or two, get help from any source. But one thing is for certain those young cowboys sure can eat! I’ll fill em full of spuds and maybe apple pie to treat. I’ve watched old western movies. Every camp cook looks like me. They’re short and bald and grumpy. Dang near fits me to a tee. Do I even need to wonder what my job is after cook? I heard one older feller say, “That’s one I’d overlook.” A cowboy’s life is simple, but it seems to fly by fast. You’re timed by Mother Nature. No use wishin’ for the past. So, I hope they’re not complainin’ cuz my cookin’s kinda slow. And please don’t think I’m useless. I was you not long ago.

COWBOY POET AND VIRGINIA CITY RESIDENT LYLE QUALLS TELLS THE STORY BEHIND HIS BULL RIDING POEM: “I was never really a bull rider, I was a bull getter-onner. I got on a lot of ‘em. Rooty toot toot, let me outta my chute, you better have the camera on quick. That’s all she wrote. You ain’t going to get much action. But, years ago I was at a bull-o-rama in Idaho where all these guys ride all these bulls. They said you got all these poems but you ain’t got nothin’ about bull riders. So I said, ‘See you tomorrow.’ So, I went home that night and wrote this poem.”

“Well there’s a young bull rider and he’s sure raising heck And he don’t even know why he’s risking his neck For a few lousy dollars and a glance from the gals And a pat on the back from his pals. But he’s riding real good in them h igh school shows, Though he’s broken his arm and he’s broken his nose. But he’s riding them rank bulls and then comes his day, He finally makes the big one, the PRCA. Well it’s his maiden voyage in the place of Cheyenne, And he wants to show them he’s really a man. It’s time to mount up, his bull’s in his chute, So, he snips down his rope with rooty toot toot. Now his partner jerked up the slack in that rope, He’s a young cowboy, but can see he’s no dope. Cowboy slides up and he pulls his hat low, He knows this bull’s quick and he ain’t so slow. So the man cracks the gate and he’s coming outside, That bull takes a high dive then goes into a slide, And he cranks to the left and he cranks to the right, But the cowboy’s no greenhorn, he’s still sitting tight. Then suddenly can’t seem to be true, He’s looking at sky and he’s sure feeling blue, ‘Cause he knows he’s about to land in the dirt, And it sure makes him mad that he’ll soil his shirt. But little does he know there’s another surprise, That’ll be there to meet him as he opens his eyes, Yeah, that bull was on him as quick as a flash, Popped him in the head and he left a big gash, And he gored him in the front and he gored him in the back, And the next time that bull hit him you could hear those bones crack. Now those cowboy’s days are over you know, You’ve just seen his last ride in the big rodeo. I suppose y’all think he went to that great cowboy heaven, No, Hell no. He just couldn’t rodeo and is working at 711.

Lyle Qualls the cowboy poet turned biker recites poems in front of the Bale of Hay Saloon. PHOTO BY JANA BOUNDS

“Back in the day, I was getting up before the sun come up and going to bed after that. You saddle up your horse and ride the range. It ain’t no Roy Rogers bull… ain’t nothing romantic. Looking at the south end of 500 head of northbound cows isn’t romantic. So, I had to get the Hell out of there. I wrote a poem ‘cause I was looking for a woman: “Leavin’ the House and Lookin’ for a Spouse,” Lyle Qualls said.

We know there comes a time in a cowboy’s life When he must slow down and choose a wife. A time to quit that running around, A time to quit actin’ like an old sniffing hound.

Well you know I drank and fought a bit and impressed the girls with my charming wit, But it’s time to find a woman who will cry, As she believes my incredible lie.

Yeah it’s time to look both far and wide And find this ever evasive bride, So off to the mighty city I go, To show them the cowboy from old Idaho. Well the first place I go is the city L.A. But half of the women that I meet are gay. So, I head on to a place called Fontana, But I don’t ride a Harley or wear a bandana, So I head to Reno to find me a honey, But these lovely ladies are just looking for money. Well I know damn well there must be a place where I can find a woman who just likes my face. A woman who will love me for just what I am, Who will stand right beside me when I’m in a jam. So, it’s up to Oregon, there must be some hope, But all the women here just want to smoke dope. So, it’s Washington state and a town called Seattle, But these goofy chicks just make my mind rattle. So, I head to Montana, a town called Great Falls, But the women have chest hair and wear bib overalls! Well, I think I’ll try a place called Cheyenne, And look for a gal with a big frying pan who can fry up a steak, fry a potater who will wrestle a grizzly or a big alligator.

But I found these young lovelies just walking their bassetts, Just roaming the streets and flashing their assets, A man just starts to dwindle soon. As far as a wife, I’d rather marry a baboon.

So to Hell with the chase, my search has gone sour, Guess I’ll go on back home and marry that wallflower. So it’s north through Nevada and Elko I meet, And I suddenly have a yearning to cool my feet. So a local drags me to old Mabel’s Inn, Now to stop in this place they say is a sin.

But you know now it’s been five years Since I’ve thought of marriage, of having a family and pushing a carriage. I’m perfectly happy without any spouse, ‘Cause I’m playing piano in Mabel’s Cat House.

QUALLS ALSO WROTE A POEM ABOUT HIS LITTLE DOG BLUE:

“‘Cause I love my little dog Blue, little damn Australian Shepard. I love him so much I wrote a poem about him,” he said.

I remember the time and I remember the day That the man came and took my dog away.

Took him to the pound and he locked him up. I didn’t know why, he was just a pup. Had three black spots and a brown one too, He had one white eye, so I called him Blue.

So head downtown to throw his bail, ‘Cause he’s a nice little dog with a short bobbed tail.

So, I asked the man, Can I have him now? ‘Cause I need ol’ Blue to sick my cows ‘Cause they’re rangy cows and they’re all brushed up, And they sure do move when they see that pup.

Well, I know I didn’t buy him a license this year, I spent the three dollars on some nice cold beer. But I’ll make him all legal and I’ll keep him penned up. If you’ll just see your way to release my pup.

But the man says now mister, this is a serious charge,

Your dog ain’t here for running at large. No, we got a complaint from ol’ Twitter Brown, Raises some hogs on the south side of town. Now, she claims that your dog visits most every night And what she has seen is one heck of a sight. Yeah she stummered and she stammered when she tried to tell About your old dog Blue and his raising Hell.

Now, she claims that Porky is what you should call that dog, ‘Cause he keeps making love to her Yorkshire hogs.

Dan Reinoehl sings at the Bear Creek Schoolhouse.

PHOTO COURTESY ROBERT CELECIA.

A cowboy gets ready to step on stage and recite poetry on a beautiful summer evening.PHOTO COURTESY

ROBERT CELECIA.

Cowboy Pocket Knife By Bryce Angell

I opened up my pocketknife and cut a piece of cheese. The blade was sharp enough to shave and sliced the cheese with ease. My good wife asked me, “Have you ever washed your knife with soap?” I slightly hesitated, then I answered with a “Nope!” And then she said, “I wonder what your knife’s been in today?” I had to think a minute, but as far as I could say, “Old Cyruss had a sore that oozed a tiny bit of pus. So, I sliced it with my pocket knife. There ain’t no need to fuss. “Cuz I wiped the blade across my shirt between the spurts of goo. That sore had built up pressure, squirted out from here to you. “I cut a month of cockleburs from both the mane and tail. You better take a load off hon. You’re lookin’ mighty pale. “The sliver that was festerin’ alongside my big toe, well I dug it with my pocket knife. There ain’t much left to show. “And talk about my toe, I got a nasty case of gout. But still opened up my pocketknife and cleaned my toenails out. “I’d have to say in my lifetime ain’t found a better tool. And if you’ve never had a knife, well maybe you’re the fool. “My father gave me my first knife when I turned eight years old. The finest gift I’d ever had, meant more to me than gold. “I never leave the house without my pocket knife at hand. To me it’s more than just a knife. No need to understand. “So, don’t you fret none ‘bout my knife. I know you think it’s rank. But I soaked it deep in alcohol. The brand your uncle drank. “And if you’re wonderin’ did I throw your uncle’s booze away? Well, I did one even better, chugged the last drop down today.”