Let's up the ante with Dante

The other day I made a timeline of major poets (about 17 pages long, I got carried away) and thought I'd focus on one of the earlier poets I placed on it: Dante. A 13th to 14th Century poet, Dante wrote so well that he is now known in Italym his home country, simply as Il Poeta. I have come across his Inferno before now while studying Paradise Lost, so it's time to look at a much shorter piece of writing, the poem,

There is a gentle thought
There is a gentle thought that often springs
to life in me, because it speaks of you.
Its reasoning about love’s so sweet and true,
the heart is conquered, and accepts these things.
‘Who is this’ the mind enquires of the heart,
‘who comes here to seduce our intellect?
Is his power so great we must reject
every other intellectual art?'
The heart replies ‘O, meditative mind
this is love’s messenger and newly sent
to bring me all Love’s words and desires.
His life, and all the strength that he can find,
from her sweet eyes are mercifully lent,
who feels compassion for our inner fires.’

This of course is a poem in translation. And I feel I hadn't covered a happy love poem in a while.

I love the personification of thought here. It is 'gentle' and yet has the joyous energy to 'spring', all because of love. And interestingly, it is thought that has power over the heart, not the typical reverse. Yet the mind is separate from thought, apparently, and so is still wary, fearing seduction. I suppose it is like intrusive thoughts that part of our minds would rather not consider.

Sometimes the commitment to love makes one feel as though other parts of life must be set aside, like the narrator's worry for his intellect. And then the greedy heart overrides these worries, concerend only with what love can 'bring'. And yet the two are joined in the last line with the possessive determiner 'our', showing that love unites the whole being eventually, not only joining two people as a couple.

Robert and his Graves

I have been reading a few of Robert Graves' poems recently. His name coincidentally chimes with many of his poems' subject matter from many different perspectives. I have even found an article on him titled 'The Haunted Mind', a very good read.

For today we shall look at 'The Cupboard', the entire message of which slips beyond my understanding, for now. Nevertheless I can feel the emotions he is trying to convey. After all, each person forms their own reading of any writing, and this is mine only.

Unfortunately I cannot find a print of the text which I can use here, so instead I shall provide a link to the poem on the Poetry Foundation website:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?volume=14&issue=5&page=23

The most intriguing thing to me about this poem is the voices. Here we have a mother asking questions of a daughter. Not in the typical way that a mother asks her young child questions she already knows the answers to, but with persistent curiosity to a presumably adult woman, who appears to want children of her own now but for some reason cannot. That is my reading. From another perspective one could imagine that the daughter is perhaps young, but old enough to understand that when her mother has miscarried her to-be sibling, the trauma has deeply affected the older woman, leading the girl to try to hide any remembrance of it.

Within my interpretation, there are two imaginings of the mother: she is either mentally able, and therefore prying into her daughter's affairs; or she is ageing mentally with dementia or a disabling condition, and so is trying to recall what is in the cupboard for her own sake. I shall put forward my arguments for both these cases henceforth.

Concerning the first interpretation, we have the terms of address. By using 'Mary' to address her daughter, perhaps the mother is wanting to take control of her daughter's attention and remind her of her superior status as mother. It could be read aloud in a warning tone. After all, the mother has control over the name 'Mary' as she is the one who gave it.

Following this, we have the unequal address from Mary to the mother as 'Mother dear'. The latter endearment could be a pragmatic balm to soothe the inquisitive and domineering mother, who never offers that affection in return. The 'dear' augments to 'dearest' and 'mine', as if trying to put off her inquisitor, maybe even sarcastically. The fact that the final stanza ends this form of address and even ends the whole poem with a simple 'you' supports the theory that once the information has been withdrawn, the relationship's amicable façade breaks, and the daughter finally stands offensively rather than defensively with her own question, 'what's it to you?'.

My preferred reading is this: the mother is not able to remember that her daughter has been unable to have a baby, whether this is because she has not found the correct partner, or because she is physically unable, or even has had a miscarriage. Whatever the reason, the daughter has now both her personal worry and the worry of caring for her mother. For that reason she uses the terms of endearment sincerely, possibly feeling she has to remind her mother who she is in order for her to remember her in the long term. To me, this makes the poem all the more poignant when we reach the final line; the mother is so dependant on how the daughter perceives their world that 'the truth' could be anything said by Mary and the mother would believe it. Also, her harrowing experiences will not much upset the mother as perhaps she will forget the conversation in a few hours or even minutes.

In this poem, the focus on a standard household object highlights the domestic issues of our time. Why else would a cupboard be so important?

Hughes up next?

This week is the long-awaited poet, Ted Hughes. He has been a great influence upon modern poets and so I feel it is worth time to look at a longer poem than usual; I found 'Daffodils' but apparently I can only get a part of the poem. I shall have to do some more hunting for that one. Another that I like is this:

Bride and Groom Lie Hidden for Three Days

She gives him his eyes, she found them
Among some rubble, among some beetles

He gives her her skin
He just seemed to pull it down out of the air and lay it over her
She weeps with fearfulness and astonishment

She has found his hands for him, and fitted them freshly at the wrists
They are amazed at themselves, they go feeling all over her

He has assembled her spine, he cleaned each piece carefully
And sets them in perfect order
A superhuman puzzle but he is inspired
She leans back twisting this way and that, using it and laughing
Incredulous

Now she has brought his feet, she is connecting them
So that his whole body lights up

And he has fashioned her new hips
With all fittings complete and with newly wound coils, all shiningly oiled
He is polishing every part, he himself can hardly believe it

They keep taking each other to the sun, they find they can easily
To test each new thing at each new step

And now she smoothes over him the plates of his skull
So that the joints are invisible

And now he connects her throat, her breasts and the pit of her stomach
With a single wire

She gives him his teeth, tying the the roots to the centrepin of his body

He sets the little circlets on her fingertips

She stitches his body here and there with steely purple silk

He oils the delicate cogs of her mouth

She inlays with deep cut scrolls the nape of his neck

He sinks into place the inside of her thighs

So, gasping with joy, with cries of wonderment
Like two gods of mud
Sprawling in the dirt, but with infinite care
They bring each other to perfection.

This poem is beautifully intimate without being explicit. It encapsulates the symmetry of husband and wife and how the physical connection aids the spiritual or mental one. The theme is giving and sharing - a marital theme. Both man and woman act in return to the other's act, showing their equality.

I am glad that the woman's 'fearfulness' recedes into 'perfection', for the tone would have become eerie if that emotion had been further pursued. What is slightly odd is the mechanical motif, with oil and steel depicting the scene. Perhaps the suggestion is that a marriage builds itself slowly, eventually creating a working machine that might need repairing from time to time but hopefully was built to last. Also, Hughes sees intercourse as a matching process, where specific parts are compatible with others, requiring them in order to function properly.

So marriage is about renewal, fitting two people together as they were made to be. Perhaps Hughes believed in soul mates, or maybe the 'new' parts show that anyone can make a marriage work, even against the odds.

More me poetry

This week I came across a poem I wrote a while back in the spur of the moment and thought that it's time to share it. It's short and sweet (I hope rather like me!) and doesn't' have a particularly interesting title, but I like to think it follows the vein of my favourite country-focused poems. I have just visited Cornwall and so it's been on my mind a lot.

Enjoy!

Rainy walk with a loved one

It's raining, muddied ground, chilly air

But we walk

Bitter cold of winter stinging hands

But we walk

Wind so strong you need one another's support

But we walk

Because whenever we walk this path, this track, this field,

We smile as if it were sunny

Like the last time.

Like the first time.

Edible Poetry

Today I baked three batches of yummy cooked goods, and feel inspired to cover a foody poem. And the one I have found has lines that strangely link in with last week's poem, noting how 'good night' is not always a pleasant notion. Also, I love the coincidence of the poet's name: Mary Lamb.

Breakfast

A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refreshed by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
Now although I would not slight
Those kindly words we use ‘Good night',
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet ‘Good Morrow',
With which again our friends we greet,
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn, or kettle; he appears
When all have finished, one by one
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Or else in idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the venturous fly,
Where the sugar's piled high,
Clambering o'er the lumps so white,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.

The main image in this poem is that breakfast is a rejuvenator, bringing a new beginning with each new day. The modifier 'new-born' is strongly emotive, connoting the bare purity which babies have and adults lack. Power is given to 'breakfast', as it is named 'the welcomer', and is personified to '[merit]' praise, again evoking the image of the benign child.

I perceived a sad yet relieved note in the section, 'we are living/ Another day'. It is broken up by enjambment and so I felt the slight pause imitated a sigh of relief that 'another day' has been given to the narrator. Ergo, I researched the poet's life and found she suffered with mental illness, which caused her to kill her mother, leading her to confinement. So the importance of breakfast is heightened in this case, as perhaps the thought of suicide, destitution or imprisonment was looming, and eating at leisure became a sign of safety for another few hours at least.

'Parting words are words of sorrow'. As I have mentioned, this chimes with Shelley's words a few decades before. The contrast of night and morning is highlighted with the rhyme to 'morrow'. This was a time of polite company, where one would stay with friends far longer than today, and so again the feeling of security is reinforced through the meeting in the 'breakfast-room'.

Even the servants ('Sleepy Robert') were given 'leisure' at breakfast. Then we drop further down the social scale to the 'fly', who is made akin to humans in the way that it enjoys breakfast in its own way, with a metaphorical 'cliff' symbolising human love of nature at the time also. Perhaps we are all, like animals, slaves to our appetites, but why not enjoy that fact as well as one can?

P.B.S: Poems by Shelley

Shelley's is another life cut short, at the age of 29. And yet another who was not fully appreciated in his time either. Some say he drowned himself, others that it was an accident in a storm. Either way, it is incredible how much work he managed to put out into the world in such a short time.

I often come to research a poet and find that I have read one of their works before. This time, I find it is Shelley's poem 'Ozymandias', which I rather enjoyed when I came across it at GCSE level. The poem I have chosen, however, has a different focus from that of ancient kingdoms to the very present, written perhaps about one of his two wives, or even many of his female companions, with whom he often had platonic relations.


Good Night

Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill
Which severs those it should unite;
Let us remain together still,
Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said, thought, understood --
Then it will be -- good night.

To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my love,
They never say good-night.                         

This poem revolves around a rather solemn pun; that the 'good' in 'good-night' might be an elliptical phrase, wishing someone well on departure, but can be received by that someone bitterly due to the very fact of the departure.

The poem begins as if a mental musing after being wished a 'good-night'. The narrator questions himself as to how the speaker could have truly wished this if they loved him as equally as he loves them. For surely, he thinks, they would have stayed 'unite[d]' in order for all to be happy and good.

The questioning continues in the second stanza, with less violent and angry a temperament as in the first ('severs'). He admits that his lover's use of the 'good night' phrase is a 'sweet' one, as if to calm himself in an afterthought through right branching. He follows his question with an imperative prayer, augmented from the hortatory 'let us', to relay his increasing passion on the subject. The repetition of 'be' emphasises his focus on the state of separate existence of the two lovers, of what is and is not.

He then focuses on the distance itself, with the spatial adjectives 'near' and 'close' juxtaposed line by line. The hypallage of the the latter depicts the evening as a time to be spent intimately with a companion, meaning that separation should occur rather in the day, when 'light' comes. The rhyme with 'light' and 'night' following shortly links the two part of the day, however, suggesting that he wishes the night to be spent as they do the days. It almost appears paradoxical, then, that when the night is good, good-night is 'never' said. But perhaps the implication is that words are not needed when the physical will suffice during the night time.

Kinky Catullus

Now we can return to my random weekly posts. As I received a book of the Roman poet Catullus' poems when leaving school, I thought it would be worth while looking at one of them (in translation of course!).

Catullus' moods vary greatly, from lovelorn to erotic. I thought the latter might be fun to attempt for once!

So, here we have:

Poem 69

Wonder not, Rufus, why none of the opposite sex
wishes to place her dainty thighs beneath you,
not even if you undermine her virtue with gifts of choice
silk or the enticement of a pellucid gem.
You are being hurt by an ugly rumour which asserts
that beneath your armpits dwells a ferocious goat.
This they fear, and no wonder; for it's a right rank
beast that no pretty girl will go to bed with.
So either get rid of this painful affront to the nostrils
or cease to wonder why the ladies flee.

This is a invective poem, written to a man who once was Catullus' friend, until perhaps he slept with Catullus' lover. He wrote many poems to or about people he knows, attacking their personalities and habits in order to make the reader laugh, as they perhaps recognise the common traits in others they know.

Here the problem is that Rufus supposedly has personal odour issues. The argument that Rufus has stolen Catullus' lover, Clodia, is supported by this poem, as the effect of his smell is that he fails to charm the ladies, an insult which would have been pertinent in this case.

Thus, Catullus opposes the 'dainty' women, evoking an image of purity and cleanliness, including in their appearance and smell, with his 'rank' manner. Even labelling the rumour as 'ugly' implies Rufus himself suits it.

The choice of the goat for the smelly animal is an interesting one, because goats are often associated with sexual excess, as donkeys and apes are. So Catullus makes the matter even worse for Rufus, as not only is he unable to obtain the women for his pleasures, but he is in a state of perpetual unfulfilled desire.

While this poem may seem trivial, others about Catullus bemoan their lost friendship in a much more sincere manner, and his love poems to Lesbia or even his lamentations of his brothers' death portray a much more forlorn side to the poet. Well worth a read.

Edward Thomas

So, we have reached the final poet of the Dymock group. This one apparently was the last to actually start writing poetry, in 1914, partly due to the war (which eventually led him to his death) and due to his discussions with Frost, his now close friend. Thus, I have chosen a poem which can be read either with or without the war context, as it is called,

LIBERTY
The last light has gone out of the world, except
This moonlight lying on the grass like frost
Beyond the brink of the tall elm's shadow.
It is as if everything else had slept
Many an age, unforgotten and lost --
The men that were, the things done, long ago,
All I have thought; and but the moon and I
Live yet and here stand idle over a grave
Where all is buried. Both have liberty
To dream what we could do if we were free
To do some thing we had desired long,
The moon and I. There's none less free than who
Does nothing and has nothing else to do,
Being free only for what is not to his mind,
And nothing is to his mind. If every hour
Like this one passing that I have spent among
The wiser others when I have forgot
To wonder whether I was free or not,
Were piled before me, and not lost behind,
And I could take and carry them away
I should be rich; or if I had the power
To wipe out every one and not again
Regret, I should be rich to be so poor.
And yet I still am half in love with pain,
With what is imperfect, with both tears and mirth,
With things that have an end, with life and earth,
And this moon that leaves me dark within the door.

It is rather an eerie thought, to imagine oneself as the only person on the planet, or for time to have stopped and only you left in motion. Thus, Thomas takes the warmth from the envisioned place in the poem, by providing the cold moonlight over the sun, and likening it to 'frost'. I am reading Tess of the D'Urbervilles at the minute, and this scene reminds me of when Tess wishes to become one with the forest and seclude herself from human relations, at liberty to have no responsibility in the world.

The 'things done long ago' interest me. It is hard to comprehend, sometimes, that past ages have really occurred, that regimes and empires have really fallen, making one feel rather insignificant, a complete contrast to the absolute significance of being the only person alive.

Yet the narrator is not entirely alone, as the moon is personified as a companion, watching on as he contemplates life, linking to the stationary trees we covered before; neither can move to enact their desires, which makes man lucky. The fact that we can perceive the difference between good and bad, depicted in the final four lines, adds to our fortune, whether we always remember that in the bad times or not.

Wilfrid Gibson

The next poet was very popular in his time (1910s). All the other poets in the group found him very amicable and were very fond of him. He had previously written rather like Tennyson, but then decided to branch out into more vernacular poetry.

Apparently the poem 'The Golden Room' depicts the group together of an evening, which I think would be a lovely poem to look at, but alas I cannot find a free version online. Do please look into it if you are interested, however, (and tell me if you can find a free version!).

One poem which exemplifies the colloquial style is 'Nightmare', which is beautifully concise (as are most of his poems, as far as I can see) , so I would recommend that one as well.

Today, however, we are looking at

Hit

Out of the sparkling sea
I drew my tingling body clear, and lay
On a low ledge the livelong summer day,
Basking, and watching lazily
White sails in Falmouth Bay.

My body seemed to burn
Salt in the sun that drenched it through and through,
Till every particle glowed clean and new
And slowly seemed to turn
To lucent amber in a world of blue . . .

I felt a sudden wrench—
A trickle of warm blood—
And found that I was sprawling in the mud
Among the dead men in the trench.

This poem encapsulates so much of the trauma of war. From the beginning denial and wish to be in a better place, to the final realisation of war which always haunts soldiers, Gibson has managed to write a poem that captures the internal conflict of the individual soldier rather than the outward conflict of the war.

Without the title's suggestion of battle, the poem starts as any other nature poem would, praising the relaxation which is found is natural surroundings, perhaps on a holiday, ironically a much more peaceful type of travel than that of war campaigns.

Apparently, when a person is shot, the first thing they feel is nothing, especially if you do not know that you have been shot. The reactions that we see on TV and film are in fact learnt reactions, from watching people react in such a way. Thus, the narrator talks of a 'tingling' first, and then a 'burning', although these both at first appear to be but the effects of a hot sun on the beach.

The third stanza disrupts the previous two. The ellipsis has led the reader to imagine the narrator as dreaming, perhaps, relaxing as he wishes. But then the 'sudden wrench' changes the perspective, and the title of the poem is remembered, almost with a pang of guilt rom the reader, who has been drawn in by an innocent and happy vision, when they were warned of the dangerous setting before. Even the five-line structure is changed, with four lines suggesting that the end for the narrator has come too soon. The different chiastic rhyme mimics how he is surrounded by 'the dead men', whom he is now to join.

It seems that Gibson is rather good at jolting the reader's attention away from an assumption and into a harsh reality, which I think is one of my favourite things about a poem, or any story.

Robert Frost

I hope you feel lucky that you are being saved the pain of my puns as I refrain from them while I go through the Dymock poets. They wouldn't seem apt somehow.

Robert Frost was an American, who moved to England for a long stay at the age of 38 in 1912. He had not been published for long and so new opportunities arose across the sea. Edward Thomas, who will be the final poet I study in the group, became one of his closest friends, with poems written for him, especially after his traumatic death. Before that, though, he stayed with Abercrombie at one point, when he wrote the following poem:

The Sound of Trees

Related Poem Content Details

I wonder about the trees.

Why do we wish to bear

Forever the noise of these

More than another noise

So close to our dwelling place?

We suffer them by the day

Till we lose all measure of pace,

And fixity in our joys,

And acquire a listening air.

They are that that talks of going

But never gets away;

And that talks no less for knowing,

As it grows wiser and older,

That now it means to stay.

My feet tug at the floor

And my head sways to my shoulder

Sometimes when I watch trees sway,

From the window or the door.

I shall set forth for somewhere,

I shall make the reckless choice

Some day when they are in voice

And tossing so as to scare

The white clouds over them on.

I shall have less to say,

But I shall be gone.

To me, it seems, Frost's travelling nature impresses upon this poem. He perhaps recognises in the trees the wish to get 'going', but the inertia causing him to 'never [get] away'. This is just one of the things that the trees make him 'wonder'; what would it be like to never move? Yes, you might grow 'wiser', but would you be happier for it? Perhaps there is a suggestion that if you fall too deeply in love with one place, or one part of nature, you might never want to leave, which is why he suddenly breaks from the reverie into, 'I shall set forth for somewhere'.
Having taken this approach to the poem, the final line now has a different meaning to when I first read it. Then, I took it as an acknowledgement of human mortality, particularly short in comparison to that of trees, or nature itself. Now I see it more as the promise that he shall not become like a tree entirely, as although he will 'have less to say', like the trees, he will not remain where he perhaps is happy, but will move on again, 'gone' to even better things. For if you never try other places, you will never know where you belong, nor can you be truly grateful for something you have not had the chance to miss.

John Drinkwater

I apologise for my long absence; I had A Level exams which are now completed and so I can focus on what I love most again. One a day from now on until I catch up! I had forgotten I was doing the Dymock poets, and was about to study a Catullus poem or two, but that will have to wait!

So John Drinkwater. He joined the poets when Abercrombie wrote a good review of his poems. He also wrote plays during the period. He became close friends with Robert Brooke, but when he died three years after in 1915, the whole group were saddened, and began to fall apart, as others died too.

The poem I have chosen today seems to fit the nature bill, and is also very apt for today (at least where I live) as summer has not yet arrived, according to the rain clouds.

Late Summer

Though summer long delayeth
 Her blue and golden boon,
Yet now at length she stayeth
 Her wings above the noon;
She sets the waters dreaming
 To murmurous leafy tones,
The weeded waters gleaming
 Above the stepping-stones.

Where fern and ivied willow
 Lean o'er the seaward brook,
I read a volume mellow—
 A poet's fairy-book;
The seaward brook is narrow,
 The hazel spans its pride,
And like a painted arrow
 The king-bird keeps the tide.

This poem casts up images of grey days that for a few lovely moments are dispersed with a gleam of sunshine, lifting the spirits of all who witness. Thus, the poet has personified both 'summer' and the nature affected by it; the waters are 'dreaming', which is an interesting, languid image, perhaps evoking the sleepy feeling of relaxing in the sunshine. The idea that the sun affects the sound of the water is also intriguing. Drinkwater might be implying that our perspective of the world is changed by the weather, for one might listen to the water in a more peaceful vein if relaxed by the sun. Without this, it might sound cold and uninviting, I suppose.

There is also the image of nature mixing. The willow is 'ivied', inventing a perfect participle to make the tree appear matched with the ivy, perhaps as a partner. The adjective 'seaward' denotes the fact that the stream which he sits by leads on to greater things, although it may only be 'narrow' now. This latter adjective is the juxtaposed with the verb 'spans' on the next line, again suggesting summer lets us stretch outside our natural habitats.

The final couplet are a little more of a mystery to me. I am assuming that my literal reading of a bird keeping a tide is not what is intended/ possible, and yet I do not know what the metaphor could imply. I have found that kingbirds are insect- eating birds, and so as it hunts it must appear as an 'arrow'. Perhaps Drinkwater wanted to give the only animal in the poem a little more power over the flora, and so personified it to be in charge of its hunting ground.

Overall, this is an evocative poem, recalling sweet summer days, which we all await through the seasons. The lilting rhythm of the poem (7 syllables, 6 syllables) adds to the relaxed tone, mimicking the timelessness that summer brings.

Rupert Brooke

From my research, it seems that Rupert Brooke was only a brief part of the Dymock group. He was asked to write some war poems for Gibson and Abercrombie to publish, and he perhaps might not have verntured into this type of poem without their influence. Nevertheless, they loved his work and posted it to subscribers of the Dymock movement, and I think any contributor is worth a looksee.

This poet seems to have a lovely range of long and short poems. The long ones I will recommend as an extra read, as they are too jam-packed for me to do them justice, so I shall just say read Dining Room Tea at least.

Today, as it si the poem submitted to the movement, we shall have:

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
   That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
   In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
   Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
   Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
   A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
      Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
   And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
      In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

I apologise first of all if my analysis is a little disjointed: I am partially watching Eurovision!

The identity constructed in this passage is a selfless, accepting and self-sacrificing one. The first line acknowledges the possibility of death, and then the selfless, modest attitude comes across through the adverb 'only' and the singular 'this', asking very little of the audience, as 'think' is a stative, not dynamic, verb.

I am taking the 'foreign...England' to be a patriotic message that each grave of an English soldier belongs to England at heart, thus the 'richer dust', as the wealth of a life has been sacrificed into ashes. It is interesting to see that he has personified England as a female. This can be linked to the motherhood identity of motherlands, which bear and rear the inhabitants of the country. It therefore comes as a source of comfort to one who faces death. I am sure that Freud would find some link with the Oedipus complex, especially with the seemingly telepathic link conveyed through the 'thoughts' being given back. This also creates an overarching English cognitive system, again very patriotic.

It is interesting that this poem praises England, even though the English have sent the narrator to die. Perhaps England here is separate from its government, which explains the natural lexis ('day', 'flowers', 'rivers'). Many war poets criticised government and war-supporters specifically, but there is no hint of that here, merely the selfless yet patriotic praise. The forward-looking and hopeful note of 'heaven' concludes, ensuring the cancelling out of the negative atmosphere of death, as has been overcome by the positive lexis of England.

That's all from me this week. Do enjoy Eurovision if you watch as well!

Dymock poets...I don't know how to say that either

...that's because it is a place name. The poets came from the area around the town of Dymock, before WW1. I don't know where I first heard about this group; all I can tell you is that I wrote down to study them, so I am!

These are the six poets:

Lascelles Abercrombie
Rupert Brooke
John Drinkwater
Robert Frost
Wilfrid Gibson
Edward Thomas

Each week for the next six weeks, I shall study these individuals and the role they had to play in the group. I know that I have already covered Frost (I think!) but I shall look closer at his involvement in the Dymock club.

So, let's begin at the top, with Lascelles Abercrombie. In actual fact, he started the group and so is the best place to begin. He was interested in the upcoming realism in contemporary poetry, and also fascinated by the countryside.

I don't think I will need to describe realism; this poem gives you all you need in itself.

The Box

Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye,
Around about the wondrous days of yore,
They came across a kind of box
Bound up with chains and locked with locks
And labeled 'Kindly do not touch; it's war.'
A decree was issued round about, and all with a flourish and a shout
And a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on before.
Don't fiddle with this deadly box, or break the chains, or pick the locks.
And please don't ever play about with war.
The children understood. Children happen to be good
And they were just as good around the time of yore.
They didn't try to pick the locks or break into that deadly box.
They never tried to play about with war.
Mommies didn't either; sisters, aunts, grannies neither
'Cause they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty
In those wondrous days of yore.
Well, very much the same as now,
And not the ones to blame somehow
For opening up that deadly box of war.
But someone did. Someone battered in the lid
And spilled the insides out across the floor.
A kind of bouncy, bumpy ball made up of guns and flags
And all the tears, and horror, and death that comes with war.
It bounced right out and went bashing all about,
Bumping into everything in store. And what was sad and most unfair
Was that it didn't really seem to care
Much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for.
It bumped the children mainly. And I'll tell you this quite plainly,
It bumps them every day and more, and more,
And leaves them dead, and burned, and dying
Thousands of them sick and crying.
'Cause when it bumps, it's really very sore.
Now there's a way to stop the ball. It isn't difficult at all.
All it takes is wisdom, and I'm absolutely sure
That we can get it back into the box, and bind the chains, and lock the locks.
But no one seems to want to save the children anymore.
Well, that's the way it all appears, 'cause it's been bouncing round
for years and years
In spite of all the wisdom wizzed since those wondrous days of yore
And the time they came across the box,
Bound up with chains and locked with locks,
And labeled 'Kindly do not touch; it's war.'

To me, the irregular rhyme (that when it occurs is rather immediate) gives a sing-song, child-like rhythm to the poem. This frames the idea that 'war' is never the fault of children, but is always affecting them, possibly the most, as fathers are lost (I am sticking to the poem's ideology, in which women do not fight), and the cost of the damage to the country is for the younger generations to repay and rebuild.

The metaphor is an interesting one, because it connoted to me the story of Pandora's box. But here, the image is specifically altered to be applied to men, not women - females have been blamed fro so many disasters, like the Fall of man, but here is one man who will blame his own sex for the tragedy of war.

This is not to say that I agree with his stereotyping of women. He lists them in their supposed functions, as 'mommies', 'sisters, aunties, grannies', all relating women to family roles. Then comes the infuriating 'cause they were quiet and sweet and pretty'. Thank you for claiming that women have no voice; poets like you made their voices louder. 'To be seen and not heard' come to mind at all? Even here the male gaze is being forced upon women. Did he think there would be gratitude because women were not being accused of starting wars?

The tone of realism begins to fade in the poem when the narrator thinks that 'we can get it back into the box', but then again he has recognised that we need 'wisdom' to do this, and as long as he thought wisdom would never be attained then the poem is still realist, especially as he ends on the reminder that is has been opened, even by wise people. So in the end, we can all hope for peace, but there will always be others who want war, and so we will always have war. Realism seems to be a euphemism for pessimism these days, unfortunately.

Thomas Wyatt

This week, we are looking at the English ambassador, poet and perhaps lover of Anne Boleyn, Thomas Wyatt. Many of his poems are in fact love poems, with sombre tones. But as I am rather tired today, I feel like I would prefer something more upbeat. Unfortunately, it seems Wyatt does not write in a happy mode, so I shall have to be content with semi-wollowing, as in:

The careful lover complaineth, the happy lover counselleth

AH! Robin!
Joly Robin!
Tell me how thy Leman doth?
And thou shalt know of mine.
‘My Lady is unkind, perdie!’	5
Alack, why is she so!
‘She loveth an other better than me,
And yet she will say, no.’
RESPONSE. I find no such doubleness;
I find women true.	10
My lady loveth me doubtless,
And will change for no new.
LE PLAINTIF. Thou art happy while that doth last,
But I say as I find;
That woman’s love is but a blast,	15
And turneth like the wind.
RESPONSE. But if thou wilt avoid thy harm,
Learn this lesson of me;
At others fires thyself to warm,
And let them warm with thee.	20
LE PLAINTIF. Such folks shall take no harm by love,
That can abide their turn;
But I, alas, can no way prove
In love, but lack, and mourn.

So, I managed to find some happiness in this poem, although it ends on the complaints rather than happy advice. Most of Wyatt's poems do include the message that women are unfaithful or unloving. This is the only one I have found where he even lets the opposite opinion be voiced, that women are 'true'. Even then, the plaintif says that that will not 'last'.

I am trying to devise what lines 19-20 are trying to convey. Perhaps it is circumlocution for 'just listen to the advice of others and give advice back'. If it had been said by the plaintif, I would have said it were a more liberal view of giving up on monogamy, or maybe even wishing for a stronger relationship. But as the counsellor says it, it might be an encouragement of faith, to act more warmly towards his lover, so she will feel warmer towards him. Perhaps he should not question her about her fidelity, instead making her so comfortable and warm that she will not want to be with anyone else.

This interpretation would make sense with the final line; he cannot 'prove' her fidelity and so he remains sad in the lack of knowledge. He wishes he could be like others and ignore jealousy but he acknowledges that he is not of this 'folk', perhaps an envious, pejorative term. If only it could have ended on the 'joly robin' as it began.

Sleeping Sir Sidney

Philip Sidney is the poet this week. A 16th Century poet, who died at the age of 31 after being injured from a battle shot (we do like to know the in-depth torments of the poet, don't we). At least his is not a tale of suicide, as is so common amongst the greatest poets.

To dive into the poem this week, I would like to introduce why I chose it. The simple answer is insomnia. I do not suffer from it clinically, more in the metaphorical sense, as one might say they feel 'depressed' without meaning they have the mental illness. I sleep much more than many people do and so I am grateful, but I do spend many nocturnal hours tossing and turning, with my head buzzing with thoughts that will not stop. Thus, the poem immediately grasped my attention with its imperative phrase: 'Come, Sleep!'.

Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the press
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw!
O make in me those civil wars to cease!—
I will good tribute pay if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,
A rosy garland, and a weary head;
And if these things, as being thine in right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

To contradict my introduction immediately, I would like to conjecture that this poem could be interpreted as a wish for the eternal 'sleep', 'death'. The capitalisation of the noun 'sleep' not only personifies it but also gives it greater significance, which is what led me to theorise about the matter. The whole poem can be read either way, which I find comforting. After all, Sidney may have specifically not wanted to draw comparisons with death as it is such a common metaphor, but it would be impossible to escape the implications due to this very fact.

I like the Marxist comment, that even the poor can have sleep and also prize it as the rich prize 'wealth' - the basics of human nature dictate that the elite classes only get more sleep than the commoners because they do not have to wake in order to work.

The metaphor of 'civil wars' is poignant; the mind wars with itself over purpose (sleeping) and function (thinking), perhaps as the poet himself did while fighting. The note about 'tribute' to me makes most sense when applied to death, i.e. that he will serve in the afterlife. But perhaps the tribute to sleep is this precise poem. Or perhaps he is giving to sleep his 'pillows' and 'bed', which to me represents the modern-day insomniac advice, that one should not use the bed for anything but sleeping. So the narrator will not read in his bed or write in his bed, but sanctify it in a way to 'Sleep'.

The final line on 'Stella' image' refers to the two lovers, Astrophil and Stella. I say lovers but Stella did not really return the feeling. This poem is part of a sequence of sonnets relating to the couple, and so the narrator is Astrophil ,when read in context. He, therefore, is saying that if sleep will not come to him, he will sit awake all night thinking about his love, Stella. The word means 'star' (Latin) and so out of context, read with the perspective that sleep is death, perhaps the narrator is saying that if death won't come, he will defiantly think of all the good and light in life. Loose interpretation, but it is there to me nonetheless. 

I might just read this the next time I feel my mind is too active...I wonder if any of you have other methods of coping with sleeplessness?

Let's beGinsberg again!

Unfortunately for you, I forgot to write a post last week and so you missed out on another punny title. I hope that the level of this week's one will satisfy you nevertheless.

In all sincerity, I apologise for missing a week, I suppose it had to happen eventually, and my only excuse is my focus on A Level revision during the Easter break. I should have come here to write and have a break but, alas, I forgot I had responsibilities.

I have no idea where I heard about this poet. Allen Ginsberg was writing in the late 20th Century and so many of the issues he covers are still pertinent today, like the state of the physical and political world, as discussed in the following poem:

Homework

If I were doing my Laundry I’d wash my dirty Iran

I’d throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap, scrub up Africa, put all the

birds and elephants back in the jungle,

I’d wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,   

Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,   

Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparkly Cesium out of Love

Canal

Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain Sludge out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,

Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little Clouds so snow

return white as snow,

Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie   

Then I’d throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood & Agent Orange,

Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out the tattletail

Gray of U.S. Central American police state,

& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an Aeon till it came out clean.

The layout of this poem is a little difficult to transpose here, so it night be best to find another copy of the poem, if you'd like.

The poet is American and so, reading the first line, I immediately tensed when I came across that final word 'Iran' attached to the adjective 'dirty'. Ginsberg makes the reader think he is just like his government, stereotyping and scapegoating other countries that they themselves have had too much involvement in. 'Dirty' appears to modify Iran because it complements it and is Iran's fault. But the next line is juxtaposed with this to plant in the reader's mind that the dirt has been caused by conflict with the USA.

I like how he then moves onto less political a message, about nature and how poorly we have treated it. His focus is external, not an American poem by and American poet but the work of a world citizen.

The metaphor of cleaning the world has been used before in colloquial terms, but I have not seen it extended to the image of one person casually cleaning one day. The fact that the narrator is alone in this poem and finishes it with the idea of '20 minutes or an Aeon' passing demonstrates how powerless each of us are in the battle for a better world when up against governments who will not deal with one another in a gracious manner. Hopelessness is not conveyed until this last line, and so comes as even more cynical, because surely the reader will have been thinking how impossible it is throughout the piece. Moreover, the brevity of the piece ironically contrasts to how long a real clean up would take.

I seem to like this poem and so will look further into Ginsberg, maybe trying to read 'Howl', a much longer poem.

Give William a welcome

I have an upcoming course which studies Shakespeare's 'Venus and Adonis'. Today I decided to read ahead so that I don't start behind, and found that contrary to my prior assumption, this is not a play but a poem (I suppose that was why I had not heard of it being performed anywhere!). Well, I can now share my thoughts on said poem here. (Also, how have I not done a Shakespeare poem before this?!)

Unfortunately it is a mini epic poem and so I cannot paste it here; it took me an hour to read the whole piece. But it was not a long hour. I enjoyed each line and only found that I drifted into my mind's limbo land once, but the culprit there was the smell of my roast dinner cooking and so Shakespeare's writing cannot be blamed.

Here is the link if you are interested:

http://www.shakespeare-w.com/english/shakespeare/w_venus.html

The basic plotline is that the goddess Venus falls in love (very quickly, as Greek gods love to do) with a male youth astride his horse. She captures him in her embrace and begs him to love her (and all the rest). When this comes to no avail due to his shame and anger at love being forced upon him, and also since he has made plans to hunt with friends, she begs but kisses. Eventually he relents and after much struggling (and also the loss of his horse to the pursuit of a mare!) escapes to hunt, but (spoiler alert) he is killed by the boar, as Venus has prophesied. I know that Shakespeare loved Ovid's Metamorphoses and so have a strong feeling that this story was sourced from that work, especially since Adonis' body transforms into a flower, which Venus keeps with her evermore.

There are some beautiful and telling lines in this poem. I liked one so much that I put it into my special quotes book; when Adonis is entreating Venus to let him go, he uses the argument that she does not love him, only lusts for him, and thus we are given the line,

'Love comforteth, like sunshine after rain'.

I keep nuggets like this in the hope that one day they will fabricate me the perfect wedding speech, the intricate references of which I am sure only I will appreciate!

Other good lines come from the most talkative character in the poem, Venus herself. She is oh-so suggestive, coming out with giggle-fests such as,

'Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.'

Her persistence comes to nought, however, and when she sees him dead, she thinks him so lovely that the boar must have merely wanted to kiss him too and so 'nuzzling in his flank' fondly, he killed him. The message here surely is that the power of love is dangerous and though it wishes to prevent tragedy, it often causes it. Story of Shakespeare's characters' lives I suppose.

I shall leave you with a pretty picture of the pair to entice you to read it. You will laugh at some of the lines (as I am sure is intentional), yet you will also deeply consider what it is to love and be loved (or not).

Birthday Poems

Yesterday was my partner's birthday and so I thought I'd have a look around at some birthday themed poems. We all know the song but I wonder if there are any non-generic, great pieces of art out there. Something touching...

Here is my favoured selection after a bit of internet rummaging:

Crossroads (Joyce Sutphen)

The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.

The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.

The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.

Quick comment: I liked how this poem was not addressed to someone and thus was rather more reflective. And it wasn't all doom and gloom either; 'dreams' are still alive even in the 'second half' of life, and the narrator ends the poem positively, looking 'always up'. Johnathon Swift's birthday poem, by contrast, talks of a woman's 'decay' through her years. Thanks Swifty. I know this poem begins solemnly on 'black' notes but I feel the narrator has come to a greater realisation of that 'carpe diem' attitude. by the poem's conclusion.

Nineteenth Birthday (R.S. Thomas)

You go up the long track
That will take a car, but is best walked
On slow foot, noting the lichen
That writes history on the page
Of the grey rock. Trees are about you
At first, but yield to the green bracken,
The nightjars house: you can hear it spin
On warm evenings; it is still now
In the noonday heat, only the lesser
Voices sound, blue-fly and gnat
And the stream's whisper. As the road climbs,
You will pause for breath and the far sea's
Signal will flash, till you turn again
To the steep track, buttressed with cloud.

And there at the top that old woman,
Born almost a century back
In that stone farm, awaits your coming;
Waits for the news of the lost village
She thinks she knows, a place that exists
In her memory only.
You bring her greeting
And praise for having lasted so long
With time's knife shaving the bone.
Yet no bridge joins her own
World with yours, all you can do
Is lean kindly across the abyss
To hear words that were once wise.

Quick comment: this poem is more advisory, but not in the patronising style that I have often read. The journey motif is utilised to convey the idea that the young and the old coexist and will both experience the same things in life, and yet the young will never fully understand the old in the moment they are informed about something the old have experienced, and the old might not remember the way that it once felt to be young correctly, and so cannot be fully empathetic either.

A Happy Birthday (Ted Kooser)

This evening, I sat by an open window
and read till the light was gone and the book
was no more than a part of the darkness.
I could easily have switched on a lamp,
but I wanted to ride this day down into night,
to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page
with the pale gray ghost of my hand.                         

Quick comment: I really liked this poem with regards to our theme for the ironic reason that it does not entirely fit it. If the title were not 'A Happy Birthday', one would never guess that this poem were about such a matter. But that is the most interesting thing about this poem; to the narrator, the best way to celebrate the passing of time in your own life is to read a book about the lives of others, whilst letting the darkness come, as it will metaphorically as you age.

Finally, I'd like to wish anyone who reads this a very Happy Birthday this year, whenever it is. I hope you celebrate it in the way that best pleases you.

The poetry of the Pound

I was hoping to make the pun in my title complete by studying a poem about greed by Ezra Pound, but the ones I can find that are about this theme are rather long! For example, Canto II deals well in greed, as does 'The Seafarer'. I think I shall set myself a challenge and cover the latter nevertheless!

As it is so long, I shall refrain from copying it here, but you can find the text at this very helpful, poetical site:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174183

In the poem, Pound narrates first-person as a sailor, one who has lost many companions and now suffers the harsh sea life. By the end of his speech, the idea that companionship is worth more than any monetary fortune is revealed.

After doing some research, I have found that this is a free translation (i.e. a loose one) of an Anglo-Saxon poem. For this reason, it might be nice to listen to the poem; it might help you understand the feel of the poem more. Here is another link for you:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b7AjmDBdqfk

It also has video to aid your processing! It is only an excerpt but you can hear the original language spoken after Pound's translation, and I find it beautiful.

Because of its origins, Pound tried to keep the strong vowel stresses in the lines, to convey the harsh sense of the waves battering against his ship, and the wind battering against his body. He sought to bring the past to the present, showing that themes like greed traverse the ages and even languages.

In some ways, the poem is a mini-epic. The narration recalls the epic tradition of oral narration (as there was no writing to relate stories) about the adverntures and journey of heros, like Odysseus in particular, as he saled for almost ten years in order to get home. Another overlap here is the mention of the 'wife', as Penelope awaited her husband's return for twenty years, yet both the narrator here and Odysseus kept finding places to be and things to do and people to visit, prolonging their reunification. Even other women got in the way!

By using only one narrator and one voice, the loneliness and isolation of a life out at sea is conveyed. By the conclusion of the poem, 'gold' appears cold and just as isolating in the grave, especially when contrasted to the bodies of brothers, who might metaphorically keep you warm in the after-life.

For now, I shall leave you with these contrasting, attractive images, which might help you contemplate the beauty of the sea but also the disconnection felt by a sailor, helping you mull over the poem's words. Enjoy!

Frost on a frosty day

Where I live, this morning the world was blanketed in fine white. The landscape jogged a memory of Robert Frost and so today we will look at one of his poems.




Let's have a little background today. An American, living from the 1870s to the 1960s, Frost liked to write about rural life and had an interest in American dialects too. His parents were British in blood and so his works were first published over here. He wrote with philosophical curiosity, perhaps influenced by the troubling times he had experienced in his family life; his father died when Frost was but 11 and his mother later of cancer. Depression and mental illness was also prevalent in all of the members and his wife as well. If you'd like to explore the link between mental health and literature, I am studying a course of the site Futurelearn which deals with the very topic, and I have found it enlightening. Here is the link if you are interested:


https://www.futurelearn.com/courses/literature/1/todo/2641


Onto some poetry. I find most of his poems are punchy, very few lines long, so I should be able to really unpack his work and get the most out of it.


The Road Not Taken


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


As I began reading this poem, I immediately wondered whether the 'road' was the common metaphor for any choice in life, like a 'life path'. By the conclusion, I have understood this to be an accurate reading. The narrator has chosen to do something that either none or not many ('less traveled' implies it nevertheless has been travelled) others have done before, whether that is Frost choosing to leave manual work in the factory and become a writer, or whether he is merely observing that those who do more unique things will become more successful.


Is his meaning about success, though? Just because taking the path he did has 'made all the difference', does that mean the difference has been good? It entirely depends upon your reading (and probably your mood at the time of reading!) as to whether you view this positively or negatively. In support of the negative reading, we could take the 'sigh' to be one of regret, or even a positive sigh of fond recollection, after 'ages' have passed and the memory hardly seems real.


Looking back through the poem now, I have only just noticed the marking of the 'wood' as 'yellow'. To me it appears rather odd and could signify a range of things. As 'ages' have passed, I think it might resemble that he was going through the metaphorical 'wood', i.e. the time of the decision, in spring time, i.e. his youth. Others have suggested that it could also signify autumn, another time of change but this time one of decline, perhaps indicating that the decision he took had a diminishing impact upon his life. I am sure there are many other readings of this adjective, and I would love to hear your thoughts.


The hindsight in this poem is what strikes me. Frost knows that once a significant life path has been taken, like choosing to become a poet, the tread cannot be erased and finding your way back to the circumstances for which the other decision could have been taken is nigh on impossible. I think his message is to take the 'less traveled' path, because any 'difference' is surely better than none. In my opinion, he leaves out whether it has been a positive experience for him because he wants to encourage others to take the risk. He is not claiming that it will work well for everyone but he is claiming that the adventure will change you and become a permanent part of you. Take the leap...