Anthology 43: Invictus

Much as I've enjoyed getting back to regular blogging, I realise that recent posts have been mostly political and I've not been leavening things with other styles of post. I know, also, that some of my readers really appreciate the poetry or music posts - and although they are few in number, architecture related posts are also popular.

So, if you're been waiting on a Poem, or Music, or other such entertainment, thank you for your patience: this one is for you.

Invictus by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

To my shame, I've only recently become acquainted with this recently following me finally seeing the film of the same name. In that, Nelson Mandela - who was inspired by the poem during his time on Robben Island - in turn uses it to inspire Francois Pineaar to lead South Africa to Rugby World Cup Glory... Sadly, it appears that this latter part is poetic licence and a speech by Theodore Roosevelt was Mandela's chosen text instead.

Andrew

Anthology 42 - Vogon Poetry

I had chosen the poem I was going to post and came online to do just that - only to discover this was number 42 in my anthology strand. So, inspired by Stephen, I paid my own visit to the BBC's Vogon Poetry Generator site, and here is the result:


See, see the lovely sky
Marvel at its big neon green depths.
Tell me, Amy do you
Wonder why the turtle ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel Groggy.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your Spoondonalig facial growth
That looks like
A pesto.
What's more, it knows
Your cummerbund potting shed
Smells of pea.
Everything under the big lovely sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm used cat litters.


You can have a go here.

Andrew

Anthology 41: Ode on Solitude

Yesterday's post was about one Pope (Benedict XVI), today's is by another (Alexander).

I speculated in yesterday's peace that a potential consideration that Benedict had in deciding to stand down was that of the media circus that attends a frail or dying Pope in his last days. Far better to escape such a furore and seek the company of other retirees, monks or even of oneself.

This week's poem is a reflection on solitude, which may well be part of the Pope's plans. Those that know me may not be entirely unsurprised that it is last verse in particular that appeals to me about this poem. It may not reflect me now but I very much have been in the place that it describes a various points in the past*.

Ode on Solitude by Alexander Pope

Happy the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease

Together mixt; sweet recreation:

And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,

Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

Andrew

*Note to self: there's been far too much of this confessional style of comment lately!

Anthology 40 - An Equal Marriage Special

Ugggh! Love Poetry... pass the boke bucket, puh-leeese...

What?

What's that you say? Parliament's voted for what? Equal Marriage? OK, the Marriage (Same Sex Couples) Bill? Oh, why didn't you say? I know the perfect poem to mark the occasion... 

Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no, it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

       If this be error and upon me proved,

       I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Andrew

Anthology 39 - "Sleep, Angry Beauty"

I can't believe I'm still up (the things I do for the party, tedious work with spreadsheets and PDFs...). I really should have been asleep for a couple of hours... I have therefore chosen a poem about, amongst other things, sleep. Although this is how the sleep of a angry lover can be a blessing.

Sleep, Angry Beauty by Thomas Campion

Sleep, angry beauty, sleep, and fear not me.

For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?

It shall suffice me here to sit and see

Those lips shut up that never kindly spoke.

   What sight can more content a lover's mind

   Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?

My words have charmed her, for secure she sleeps,

Though guilty of much wrong done to my love;

And in her slumber, see, she close-eyed weeps:

Dreams often more then waking passions move.

   Plead, sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee,

   That she in peace may wake and pity me.

Andrew

Anthology 38 - I am a hunchback

This week's poem is by that Scots literary icon, Robert Louis Stevenson. The author of Treasure Island, Kidnapped and a A Child's Garden of Verse also wrote this poem which is much more than the ditty it may appear at a casual reading:

I am a hunchback by Robert Louis Stevenson

I am a hunchback, yellow faced,

A hateful sight to see,

'Tis all that other men can do

To pass and let me be.

I am a woman, my hair is white,

I was a darkhaired lass;

The gin dances in my head,

I stumble as I pass.

I am a man that God made at first,

And teachers tried to harm,

Here! hunchback take my friendly hand,

Good woman, take my arm.

Andrew

Anthology 37 - Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

There's been much talk - though little evidence of - snow in the UK* over the past couple of days, so coming across this poem against that background makes it seem apt. I make no apologies for including this second poem in the space of three weeks by Robert Frost!

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by 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.

Andrew

*I tend not to watch the News or Weather Forecasts and I've not seen any here in Bristol.

Anthology 36: The Way Through The Woods

This week's poem follows on from last week's (The Road Not Taken) and talks of a road even less taken.

The Way Through The Woods by Rudyard Kipling

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.

Andrew

Anthology 35: The Road Not Taken

It's been a while since I added to the Anthology strand of this blog - something which I hope to rectify in the coming year. Poetry is going to be making a comeback on these pages!

Looking for something to re-start the strand, I chanced upon Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken. At a time of year when both looking back and looking forward are national pastimes - and when many people opt to make major life choices - it seems most apt.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

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.

Andrew

Something Tapped

Although I like to read, I haven't read a great deal of the classics - although I am slowly starting to rectify this. One author I intend reading at some stage is Thomas Hardy, author of Far from the Madding Crowd, Tess of the D'Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure amongst many others.

As well as novels, though, he also wrote poetry, much of it dedicated to his first wife. This volume of his poems was one of the subjects of Radio 4's A Good Read this week and listening to the programme inspired to look up and read some of his poems... This is one that I particularly liked:

Something Tapped by Thomas Hardy

Something tapped on the pane of my room

When there was never a trace

Of wind or rain, and I saw in the gloom

My weary Belovèd's face.

"O I am tired of waiting," she said,

"Night, morn, noon, afternoon;

So cold it is in my lonely bed,

And I thought you would join me soon!"

I rose and neared the window-glass,

But vanished thence has she:

Only a pallid moth, alas,

Tapped at the pane for me.

Postcards from Edinburgh

Last week, I was home in Scotland for Christmas and, as is my custom, I took a number of photographs. I'm going to publish some of these over the next few days both here and at the widow's window. I'm starting with some pics of Edinburgh but there are some of Fife and Glasgow's new Riverside Museum to come.

Calton Hill, Waverley Station (with restored roof) in foreground

Calton Hill

Edinburgh Castle, with Princes Street (complete with tram tracks...)

Altar, St John's Scottish Episcopal Church

Roof, St John's

Andrew

For the Fallen

Tomorrow is Armistice Day and as in previous years, I shall be marking this with some appropriate posts.

Today's post is a classic and oft quoted poem by Laurence Binyon. It's sobering to think that although this was first published on the 21st September 1914 - just under two months into the Great War - it still has a relevance today.

For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,

Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal

Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.

There is music in the midst of desolation

And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

They mingle not with laughing comrades again;

They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;

They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,

Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,

To the innermost heart of their own land they are known

As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,

Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,

As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,

To the end, to the end, they remain.

Andrew

You can find my previous posts on the subject of Remembrance here.

Snake

Courtesy of  Herpetofauna of Europe

Whilst looking for a poem to post, I came across this one by D. H. Lawrence which range vague bells - I must have read it years ago, although I can't remember where or when.

It's longer than most poems I choose to feature, although I make no apology for that. It is quite easy reading, on one level, but will bear several readings and some scrutiny.

Snake by D. H. Lawrence

A snake came to my water-trough

On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,

To drink there.

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree

I came down the steps with my pitcher

And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom

And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough

And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,

And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,

He sipped with his straight mouth,

Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,

Silently.

Someone was before me at my water-trough,

And I, like a second comer, waiting.

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,

And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,

And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,

And stooped and drank a little more,

Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth 

On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.

The voice of my education said to me

He must be killed,

For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man

You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,

How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough

And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,

Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?

Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?

Was it humility, to feel so honoured?

I felt so honoured.

And yet those voices:

If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, 

But even so, honoured still more

That he should seek my hospitality

From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough

And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,

And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,

Seeming to lick his lips,

And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,

And slowly turned his head,

And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,

Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round

And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,

And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,

A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,

Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,

Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,

I picked up a clumsy log

And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,

But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.

Writhed like lightning, and was gone

Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,

At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.

I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!

I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

And I thought of the albatross

And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,

Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,

Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords

Of life.

And I have something to expiate:

A pettiness.

Andrew

This Be The Verse

Today's poem is, lets be honest, a pretty bleak statement about Human Nature. I may not wholly subscribe to the views Larkin expresses here - after all it's not just misery that is handed on from generation to generation - but there is an element of truth in it. The poem also has a beautifully simple structure to go with its simple (and simplistic) logic.

This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don't have any kids yourself.

Andrew

Dover Beach

It's been a while since I posted a poem (how many times have I said that on these pages?!) so it's about time I posted another.

I first came across Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold when I was studying for my Highers some 20 years ago. Fortunately years of learning poetry for elocution lessons (as well as memorising Bible passages for Sunday School) meant I was able to remember enough of it to use it as the basis of my answer for one of the essay questions in the exam.

In the intervening years I have occasionally come across it again, and have always enjoyed it. I'm not sure I could write an essay on it now, though. Fortunately, I don't have to, as there is much analysis available elsewhere on the internet, including in this Wikipedia entry.

Anyway that's enough rambling from me other than to say that, like most good poems, this is worth taking time over. If you skim read it, you'll lose any chance of interpreting the author's meaning or feeling the emotion of the piece. Take it slowly and let the rhythm and cadence carry you through to the end. Enjoy:

Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold 


The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;- on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.


Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.


The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.


Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.




Andrew

On the Ning Nang Nong

This latest entry in my anthology is one of the favourite poems of my childhood. From the mind of the late, great Spike Milligan, it is quite simply nonsense. I defy you to read this and keep a straight face...

On the Ning Nang Nong by Spike Milligan

On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!! 

Andrew

Leisure

While I'm not alone in reminiscing about the past and how much life has changed, even during my lifetime, I don't believe in harking back to a Golden Age. Modern life is not necessarily better or worse than in previous generations - just different. Or, to put it another way, there are aspects of modern life which are better and aspects which are worse - and some which are, arguably, both.

One of these areas is the joint rise of the smart phone and social networking. While being instantly connected to family, friends and news sources can be good, it can also be a drag, especially when trying to avoid information on a particular and popular event, say the F1 qualifying or Grand Prix, because you intend to watch it later.

I also find this instant connectivity and availability of information distracts me from taking time out to do other things, like spend time with a book or just to think. But there have always been distractions in life which is the subject of today's poem by William Henry Davies (1871 - 1940):

Leisure by William Henry Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Andrew

Bedouin Song

This week's poem is from a poet I'd never come across until Friday, Bayard Taylor. I could pretend to have learnt all about him but that would be fraudulent, so instead here's his Wikipedia entry.

This post is dedicated to my Sister and her new Husband as during his speech at their wedding, he quoted from Taylor's poem "Bedouin Song". Here it is in full:

Bedouin Song by Bayard Taylor (1825-1878)

From the Desert I come to thee
On a stallion shod with fire;
And the winds are left behind
In the speed of my desire.
Under thy window I stand,
And the midnight hears my cry:
I love thee, I love but thee, 
With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold,  
And the stars are old,  
And the leaves of the Judgment Book Unfold!

Look from thy window and see
My passion and my pain;
I line on the sands below,
And I faint in thy disdain.
Let the night-winds touch thy brow
With the heat of my burning sigh,
And melt thee to hear the vow
Of a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold,  
And the stars are old,  
And the leaves of the Judgment Book Unfold!

My steps are nightly driven,  
By the fever in my breast,  
To hear from thy lattice breathed  
The word that shall give me rest.  
Open the door of thy heart,  
And open thy chamber door, 
And my kisses shall teach thy lips  
The love that shall fade no more

Till the sun grows cold,  

And the stars are old, 

And the leaves of the Judgment Book Unfold!

Andrew

Oor Wullie, Your Wullie, A'body's Wullie

© D C Thompson & Co Ltd

Whilst searching for inspiration for this blog (I wanted a Scottish poem, seeing as I'm at home this week) I came across the following, unattributed poem. Written in the style of Burns' various addresses (To A Haggis, To A Mouse etc), it's a tribute to Oor Wullie, whose adventures are a regular feature in the Sunday Post, along with those of The Broons.

Unlike their stablemates in The Dandy and The Beano, Oor Wullie and The Broons have never made the big time outside of Scotland (although Paw Broon has a Twitter account). This is probably on account of the humour and the language being distinctively Scottish.

Anyway, here's the poem and a glossary which explains some of the dialect words:

Oor Wullie

Fair fa' your rosy-cheekit face,
Your muckle buits, wi' broken lace,
Although you're always in disgrace,
An' get your spanks,
In all our hearts ye have your place,
Despite your pranks.

Your towsy heid, your dungarees,
Your wee snub nose, your dirty knees,
Your knack o' seeming tae displease
Your Ma an' Pa.
We dinna care a tuppenny sneeze
We think you're braw.

You're wee, an' nae twa ways aboot it,
You're wise, wi' very few tae doot it,
You're wild, there's nane that wad dispute it,
Around the toon.
But maist o a' ye are reputit
A lauchin' loon

Weel-kent, weel-liked, you're aye the same,
Tae Scots abroad and Scots at hame.
North, south, east, west, your weel-won fame
Shall never sully.
We'll aye salute that couthie name:
Oor Wullie.


Glossary:
muckle=large
towsy=untidy
braw=fine
lauchin' loon=laughing boy
weel-kent=well known
aye=always
couthie=friendly 


Andrew

Upon Westminster Bridge

This week's poem (I feel justified in calling it "this week's", as I seem to be getting back into my stride with this anthology strand) is Upon Westminster Bridge by Wordsworth. 

Composed on the 3rd of September 1802, his view would have been from the original Westminster Bridge which was of stone - shown here in a 1746 picture by Canaletto - rather than the 1862 bridge which stands to this day.

Upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still! 

Although the city may have changed and expanded since 1802, these pictures capture something of the "beauty of the morning, silent, bare" that Wordsworth describes. 

Andrew