A visit to Shropshire - Wenlock Edge

August 6th

We’ve been learning -oems by heart.

1. Housman’s On Wenlock Edge.  We visited the spot in June this year, and walked around, along an easy path from much Wenlock, then a trickier one down the other side of the through the woods, until we could see the Wrekin’s ‘forest fleece’.

We later spent half an hour or so in Uricon (Wroxeter)

On Wenlock Edge the wood’s in trouble

His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves

the gale, it plies the saplings double

and thick on Severn snow the leaves.

‘Twould blow like this through holt and hanger

when Uricon the city stood

Tis  the old wind in the old anger

But then it threshed another wood.

then, ‘twas before my time, the Roman

At yonder heaving hill would stare

The blood that warms an English yeoman,

The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.

There, like the wind through woods in riot

Through him the gale of life blew high

The tree of man was never quiet.

Then ‘twas the Roman, now ‘tis I

The gale, it plies the saplings double

it blows so hard, ‘twill soon be gone:

Today the Roman and his trouble

Are ashes under Uricon

Labels: Housman, poetry., Uricon, Wenlock Edge 

London Snow - Robert Bridges

London Snow by Robert Bridges

When men were all asleep the snow came flying,

In large white flakes falling on the city brown,

Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,

Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;

Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;

Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:

Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;

Hiding difference, making unevenness even,

Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.

All night it fell, and when full inches seven

It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,

The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;

And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness

Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:

The eye marvelled - marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;

The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;

No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,

And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.

Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,

They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze

Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;

Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;

Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder!'

'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!'

With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,

Following along the white deserted way,

A country company long dispersed asunder:

When now already the sun, in pale display

Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below

His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.

For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;

And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,

Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:

But even for them awhile no cares encumber

Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,

The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber

At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken. A poem which came to the mind of one of my walking companions today as we trudged through old snow towards Rockingham.  From poems about woods, to snowy woods, and on to snow in London . . .

Stopping by woods on a snowy evening - Robert Frost

Another poem about woodands - and very appropriate for today - snow on the ground.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening - Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

Kipling - The Way through the Woods

They shut the road through the woods Seventy years ago. Weather and rain have undone it again, And now you would never know There was once a road through the woods  Before they planted the trees. It is underneath the coppice and heath, And the thin anemones. Only the keeper sees That, where the ring-dove broods, And the badgers roll at ease, There was once a road through the woods. Yet, if you enter the woods Of a summer evening late, When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools Where the otter whistles his mate. (They fear not men in the woods, Because they see so few) You will hear the beat of a horse's feet, And the swish of a skirt in the dew, Steadily cantering through The misty solitudes, As though they perfectly knew The old lost road through the woods. . . . But there is no road through the woods. I'm posting this because we walked through the woods, and couldn't remember who wrote the poem.  I thought it was de la Mare - it has something of the feel of Walter de la Mare - The Listeners - "Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grass Of the forest's ferny floor; And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-- "Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.  and Robert Frost - 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 marked 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.

Poetry and Science

Excellent short article by Ruth Padel.

My thoughts for what they're worth - 

Seeing the full moon in a clear sky on a cold night like last night can take the mind on a journey both poetic and scientific. I think the urges to understand and to express mystery have the same source - our endless curiosity and need to communicate and speculate.

La Belle Dame sans Merci

I didn't know this Keats poem was based on a 1424 French poem by Alain Chartier La Belle Dame sans Mercy.


There's an interesting article on the poem and on Keats.

Full text

The rain gods - are they with me or agin me?

I go to hang some washing out . . . spots of rain . . . so I think maybe I'll make a start on clearing the shed . . .and I just heave a load of stuff on to the lawn, and it pours. . . back to old faithful computer, and lo! the skies are clearing.   Maybe it's time for a coffee and a scone?  And even better - Harry's just volunteered to make it!

At the risk of rabbiting on about nothing to a greater extent than usual - yay, I cleaned out the shed, and stuck two loads of washing out, and had scones with clotted cream at coffee time.

And I managed to take a carful of wood, plastic and metal rubbish to the recycling centre - local tip.

Another random entry:

Written as part of an article about self-editing for the aborted WD mag.

'A poem is never finished', said Paul Valéry, 'only abandoned.' This is the current abandoned version. To be fair the whole enterprise this was planned for was abandoned too!

How do you get your poem to scan?
Do you bang with a spoon on the base of a pan?
Do you count all your words or just hope that they flow
Do you edit, fuhgeddit, or let it all blow?

Do you sing words along to the tune of a song?
Do you bounce rubber balls or yourself off the walls?
Whatever you do keep it up if it works,
Make poetry fun with these physical jerks.

Do you let raw emotion roar out on the page
or force the caged tiger to swallow his rage?
Do you prune out the clichés with merciless knife
and throw out excess words that drain it of life?

Can you rhyme all the time or is rhyming too pat?
Do you scour the thesaurus, or do without that?
Sometimes you may find that a word from a book
can lead you up roads where you’d not thought to look.

March 08

The original was more fun, because the mechanism was visible.

Free verse etc

Postings on WD have led me to look back at some of the poets I studied long ago, for 'A' Level, and at uni. Baudelaire, Verlaine, Rimbaud. This could keep me busy for some time.
I don't have any flag to fly for free verse as opposed to formal and when I write I flit from one to another. But maybe this could make me become more conscious of what I'm doing and why.

WritersDock Poetry Competition Winners

1st - Sabita Banerji More Gardened Against Than Gardening

2nd - Grace Galton Awakening

3rd - Geoff Lowe Death Comes in Two Parts

You can read the winning entries here.

I act as a moderator for WD, but as someone who didn't enter or judge the competition, I'd like to congratulate the winners, and the judging team, and say how much I enjoyed all three poems.

OK, all write? Keep write on, etc...

Someone posted a good comment on WD this morning, not on a poem of mine - I haven't posted one since The Old Tart - but this could help when I'm dissatisfied with things.
'...don't expect every poem to be better than the one before. Few poets are consistently good. Some of the best produced very ordinary stuff along with their brilliant work.'
It fits in well with Stephen King's advice that you need to be there working regularly, to stand a chance of the Muse dropping by.

'andy 'ints for 'opeful 'omers

I put together a short piece on writing poetry. It was possibly going in the mag. Then I found someone else, far better known, had written something and was happy for me to use it. But, as I was brought up to 'waste not, want not', I couldn't just throw mine in the non-recyclables. Yet.

• Read it aloud and listen – you’ll hear the good, the bad and the ugly combinations of sounds. Choose the ones you want.
• If you’re aiming for a regular metre, clap, bounce a ball, or tap your feet. Or sing your poem to a tune with a definite beat.
• Use a rhyming dictionary if you’re really stuck – an unusual word could lead you to a new image or idea. It’s quicker than going through the alphabet in your head and trying out all possible rhymes.
• Remove words that don’t work for their living, especially in free verse.

OK, what have I missed? There must be plenty.

Writers' Dock Poetry Competition

This competition closes on March 31st. Cost £3 for one poem, £6 for three. First prize £100.

WD is a website which started when the BBC Get Writing site closed in 2005. Writers of all standards can post their work and discuss it with others. The emphasis is on constructive feedback, rather than simply telling people their work is great or crap.

I've been a moderator on there for about two and a half years alongside a dedicated and competent bunch of people.

Keeping track of myself

OK. Last month I planned to post at least a short piece each day on WD - it didn't happen, but I wasn't too far off, and I have been blogging.
And since I last totted it all up (February 23rd), I've written a sonnet for a challenge. Topic (chosen by me) anything but love. I was all Valentined out after last month's challenge.
I've also posted a couple of very quickly written flash poems from prompts.

We've been discussing the 'to be continued' story idea - someone writes about 100 words, and others add their 100 words to it. At least two of us admit we have trouble writing endings.
So next week, I'm going to post 100 words, and we'll use it in two ways. One will be as normal, as the start of a story. For the second version, others will write the 100 words leading up to that situation, and so on backwards. Until we arrive at a beginning?

Charles Simic

I just came across this interview with the 'Poet Laureate of the United States' , Charles Simic.
He seems very down-to-earth. I didn't even know there was a poet laureate of the US. I enjoyed his comments about 'happiness', especially the very last answer in the interview.

What advice would you give to people who are looking to be happy? For starters, learn how to cook.

St Brigid's Day poetry in cyberspace

A day or two late but I've just come across this poetry reading in cyber-space for St Brigid's day, February 2nd.

You post a poem of your own or someone else's on your blog and link to the page. Maybe next year.