Renichi Suzuki selects and translates, John Clare Meishisen (Selected Poems of John Clare)

This is an unusual review in that it is of a Japanese publication, written in Japanese, and containing translations into Japanese of some of John Clare’s most memorable poems and considerations on them and John Clare himself. The Review is by poet and artist
Yuko Minamikawa Adams.

Renichi Suzuki selects and translates, John Clare Meishisen (Selected Poems of John Clare)

Tokyo: Eihosha Co., Ltd, March  2021.
ISBN 978-4-269-82054-8

400 pages, JPY3850

This is Renichi Suzuki’s second translation into Japanese of John Clare’s poems. He began reading Clare’s work more than forty years ago. The first book was the translation of John Clare (Everyman’s Poetry Series 27) edited by R. K. R. Thornton. In his afterword, Suzuki mentioned that after the first publication, he became keener to translate other important poems by Clare so that many more Japanese readers may get to know his poems and recognise the importance of his work. There are 45 poems included in this book, which were all selected by Suzuki. As well as nature and ecology themed poems, he chose the poems which are about politics, the social system and love such as To the Snipe,  The Lamentations of Round-Oak Waters, Child Harold, Don Juan, Mary (It is the evening hour…). The book cover illustrated by Carry Akroyd beautifully represents the atmosphere of Clare’s poems.

Poetry translation is usually very challenging and one needs to overcome another hurdle when the original work is written in the past – in this case, more than 100 years ago. There may be slight changes in the meaning of words over time and you really have to have a thorough understanding of language used in the past as well as the skill to convert them into a target language, which has to be easily understood by modern readers. In spite of these obstacles, Suzuki’s longtime appreciation of Clare’s poems has made possible a Japanese version of his poetry, which is comfortable to read without impairing the natural flow of Japanese language. I can hear Clare’s voice through Suzuki’s Japanese translation.

In addition to translation, Suzuki includes footnotes for each poem, expounding the interpretation by himself and other researchers, specific names of animals and plants, historical backgrounds and reasons why he chose certain Japanese words for translation. They are of great help to the readers who are not familiar with the situation of the time and the place where the poet lived. For example, in a footnote for the poem To the Snipe, he explains that ‘The little sinky foss’ in the sixteenth stanza shows that the fen where the snipe lived had been partially cultivated. I could have easily overlooked this fact and my impression about this poem should have been different. As for the poem The Gypseys Song, he translated the word ‘free’ in the fifth line into a word ‘tada de’, which means ‘at no cost’ in Japanese. (The gipsy’s life is a merry life, / And ranting boys we be; / We pay to none or rent or tax, / And live untith’d and free.) At the same time, he noted his view that this word ‘free’ also connotes the meaning of being able to do what you want, in consideration of the lines ‘While echo fills the woods around / With gipsey liberty’ and ‘Our maidens they are fond & free’ in the same poem. As it isn’t always possible for one word in one language to have same varieties of meaning in an equivalent word in another language, this type of explanation is very useful to bridge partial discrepancies between two languages.

It is heart-warming to read the episode about his encounter with Clare’s poems, which is written in his afterword. He first read his work at the lecture on the history of English literature by Professor Naonori Yanami. When Suzuki borrowed a book from the professor, he found Yanami’s translation of Little Trotty Wagtail between the pages. Yanai also gave him words of encouragement when Suzuki published a translation of The Nightingale’s Nest in a research journal. Suzuki also acknowledged the support from R. K. R. Thornton and James McKusick, two researchers on John Clare for interpretation of his poems. In this exciting new translation of Clare’s verse, we can see a strong friendship and conversation continued between different times and places that shows the ongoing value and resonance of his poetry.

Yuko Minamikawa Adams was born and grew up in Japan, and now lives
in Royston. She writes poetry in Japanese and English. Her most recent
collection in Japanese is Skirt. Her visual poetry works have been exhibited
in Paris.

This review was first published in The John Clare Society Journal 2023 (Nbr.42)

W.B.Yeats: Easter, 1916

Okay, Yeats is not poet I have read until recently, and even now it is merely a skip through a complete works; reading the shorter rather than the extended poems. I have almost been teased into him. Once by being queried on my mis-quoting one of his most quoted lines without my realising it. After this by finding many listings on the internet about or suggesting his best poems. Another, by finding a complete volume of his work, with dates and notes included. (I always like to see the date of a poem’s inception included in publications.) It includes quite a long intro. to his life and then voluminous notes to the poems. Which are both disconcerting and encouraging me to discover his poetry. I understand his ‘books’ should be read as books and not my toe-dipping activities at this time. I will progress to more serious ‘study’ and expect to benefit from it.

I have wandered through the book and find I enjoy his style, albeit reading his shorter poems and ignoring the long. I have kept a note of those catching my attention and will put them up on another occasion. The poem below was written a few months after the Easter Uprising in Dublin. Under that poem I have added a link to the Poetry Foundation’s page of the poem and an essay on it. It is not for me to report on the event, I did read that Yeats tried not to be political in his writing, that he believed in the romance of poetry, the Romance of Myths and Heritage, even developing or massaging ancient legends in his stories. Yet on my simple reading of Easter, 1916, I feel he believes in his repeated lines ending each verse: ‘All changed, changed utterly: a terrible beauty is born.’ A change in an Irish landscape, humanscape that was as significant as the ongoing World War. Maybe his sympathy was for the ‘brief and bloody actions of people, idealists, and poets,’ as a myth in the making, foreseeing ‘heroic’ names to echo through the years. And over a hundred years later the Easter Rising at the Dublin Post Office is still casting both shadow and spell of bloody fact and mythology.

Easter, 1916
        BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

I have met them at close of day   
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey   
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head   
Or polite meaningless words,   
Or have lingered awhile and said   
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done   
Of a mocking tale or a gibe   
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,   
Being certain that they and I   
But lived where motley is worn:   
All changed, changed utterly:   
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent   
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers   
When, young and beautiful,   
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school   
And rode our wingèd horse;   
This other his helper and friend   
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,   
So sensitive his nature seemed,   
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,   
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,   
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone   
Through summer and winter seem   
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,   
The rider, the birds that range   
From cloud to tumbling cloud,   
Minute by minute they change;   
A shadow of cloud on the stream   
Changes minute by minute;   
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,   
And a horse plashes within it;   
The long-legged moor-hens dive,   
And hens to moor-cocks call;   
Minute by minute they live:   
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.   
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part   
To murmur name upon name,   
As a mother names her child   
When sleep at last has come   
On limbs that had run wild.   
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;   
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith   
For all that is done and said.   
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;   
And what if excess of love   
Bewildered them till they died?   
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride   
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:   
A terrible beauty is born.

September 25, 1916

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/70114/william-butler-yeats-easter-1916

Poems on the Miners’ Strike, 40th Anniversary

I well remember the long, agonising period of the Miners’ Strike, admittedly only via news reports in papers and television. This page is prompted by poems from Andrew Challis, a contemporary Welsh poet and Barrie Kemp, plus some lyrics by Max Boyce. Max Boyce was a high profile Welsh folk singer/entertainer at the time (still).
Barrie and his cousin Michael Kemp are cousins and although never miners themselves, can count six generations of miners in their family tree.

Heart and Coal        By Andrew Challis. YouTube link https://t.co/LNk4at56M4

In the valleys of South Wales
unfolds the tale of ‘84,
solidarity through adversity
defiance dripped from every pore,

Proud banners raised up high
miners brave struggles untold,
fighting for their rights
in defence of Welsh black gold.

Through the wind and rain
strong side by side they’d stand
unyielding their resolve
spirit of brothers
hand in hand.

Within the depths of the pit
through day and dead of night,
determination reigned
proud miners they’d unite.

Although time it passes by
strong lives the memory,
their anthem it belongs
in the echoes of history.

For the miners of ’84
in those depths they shall remain,
in the valleys of South Wales
where courage it did reign

…………………………………

The 40^th Anniversary of the Miners’ Strike                by    Barrie Kemp

The year was 1984 
When Thatcher ruled the land
And she decided to take on the unions
And silence their brass and silver bands.

First, Margaret stockpiled cheap coal from Poland
And then rocketed the pay of the Police
Whilst the managers of pits in our land and miners were told
They were to down tools and cease.

Now Thatcher’s nemesis was Arthur Scargill
The plain-speaking leader of the NUM
Who challenged her lackey, McGregor
To make public the Tory plans.

And so the year-long dispute came about
The fight for the future of British coal
And whilst the Police took home wads of pay
The Miners were denied the dole.

And every night on the TV
There were scenes of colliers, armed only with a brew
Being charged at by mounted Police
Echoes of the Massacre at Peterloo.

The year dragged on
And other unions rallied around
To support the miners with food and cash
Thatcher kept changing the union laws 
But they would not go face down.

‘Scargill’s a Russian Commie!’
Bellowed the right-wing press
‘A multimillionaire with house to match!’
Nothing was true, but they wouldn’t rest.

And so whilst miners’ children and wives starved
The Police piled up their white goods and protected the mercenaries and scabs
Bussed in behind grilled windows 
Their shameful faces hidden by hoods.

But by the end of the year the miners’ resolve was broken
And they marched back to work with banners and heads held high
Accompanied by brass and silver bands
With pit closure notices on information boards nearby.

Memories are long and bitterness runs deep
Now it’s 40 years since the miners took a stand
Against Thatcher and international capitalism 
But you can still the brass and silver bands.

………………………………………

 e The lyrics of ‘Duw It’s Hard’ by the ‘Welsh Bard’, Max Boyce:
Duw It’s Hard

In our little valley
They closed the collery down
And the pithead baths is a supermarket now
Empty gurneys red with rust
Roll to rest admist the dust
And the pithead baths is a supermarket now

Chorus:
‘Cause it’s hard
Duw it’s hard
It’s harder than they will ever know
And it’s they must take the blame
The price of coal’s the same
But the pithead baths is a supermarket now

They came down here from England
Because our outputs low
Briefcases full of bank clerks
That had not never been below
And they’ll close the valley’s oldest mine
Pretending that they’re sad
But don’t you worry butty bach
We’re really very glad

Chorus:
‘Cause it’s hard
Duw it’s hard. etc.

My clean clothes locker’s empty now
I’ve thrown away the key
And I’ve sold my boots and muffler
And my lampcheck 153
But I can’t forget the times we had
The laughing midst the fear
‘Cause everytime I cough I get
A mining souvenir

Chorus:
‘Cause it’s hard
Duw it’s hard: Etc

I took my old helmet home with me
Filled it full of earth
And I planted little flowers there
They grew for all their worth
And it’s hanging in the glasshouse now
A living memory
Reminding me they could have grown
In vases over me

Chorus:
‘Cause it’s hard
Duw it’s hard: Etc.

But I know the local Magistrate
She’s got a job for me
Though it’s only counting buttons
In the local factory
We get coffee breaks and coffee breaks
Coffee breaks and tea
And now I know those dusty mines
Have seen the last of me

Chorus:
‘Cause it’s hard
Duw it’s hard:

Source:  MusicMatch.  Copyright acknowledged.

Ed: apologies for the slightly out of focus header picture, due to need to crop to fit.
Photo by Phil Cullen, see website link below.
see link Welsh Coal mines for assorted photos and details of Welsh collieries.

‘Road’ Poems of Robert Frost and F.S. Flint

Two poems, two directions taken:

The Road Not Taken.      Robert Frost.    Written 1915

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

War-Time.     F.S. Flint,  Written 1916. (19 Dec 1885 – 28 Feb 1960)

If I go out of the door,
it will not be
to take the road to the left that leads
past the bovine quiet of houses
brooding over the cud of their daily content,
even though
the tranquillity of their gardens
is a lure that once was stronger;
even though
from privet hedge and mottled laurel
the young green peeps,
and the daffodils
and the yellow and white and purple crocuses
laugh from the smooth mould
of the garden beds
to the upright golden buds of the chestnut trees.
I shall not see
the almond blossom shaming
the soot-black boughs.

But to the right the road will lead me
to greater and greater disquiet;
into the swift rattling noise of the motor-‘busses,
and the dust, the tattered paper—
the detritus of a city—
that swirls in the air behind them.
I will pass the shops where the prices
are judged day by day by the people,
and come to the place where five roads meet
with five tram-routes,
and where amid the din
of the vans, the lorries, the motor-‘busses,
the clangorous tram-cars,
the news is shouted,
and soldiers gather, off-duty.

Here I can feel the heat of Europe’s fever;
and I can make,
as each man makes the beauty of the woman he loves,
no spring and no woman’s beauty,
while that is burning.

It is (or was,) commonly put that Frost’s poem was a deciding factor, or final straw, in his (Edward Thomas’) decision to join the army, but I believe he had already joined when he received a letter with the poem in it. Thomas joined the army in July 1915. Some time later, Frost commented that the poem was aimed at Thomas’ form of indecision. That whichever road he took, at some time he would always have felt that the other ‘Road’ might have been better.
  Edward’s decision to join the army was not wanted by his wife Helen, but she thought it inevitable.    ‘I had known that the struggle going on in his spirit would end like this, and I had tried to prepare myself for it.’
(Under the Storms Wing, Carcanet, Helen Thomas, ppr1997)

The poem by F S Flint is another ‘road’ poem about ‘stepping forward’.  His poem pointedly refusing to take a seemingly comfortable, rural route in the restful countryside in favour of the road that leads to the clamorous city and the ‘fever of Europe’ at war.  Written in 1916, maybe a response to Frost’s poem? I leave that to more knowledgable people to answer.

Flint, born in 1885 and a successful poet (styled as an ‘Imagist’) but apparently stopped writing poetry when his wife died in 1920. He did continue translating French writings, however.

Rainer Maria Rilke: Dunno Elegies

Translated by Martin Crucefix

Published by Enitharmon, £9.99.  in 2006

A Graph Review

I  bought this, plus another title, from the author at a poetry reading.
I started to read it a month later. I have read a few other Rilke poems, by other translators but this is the first full collection. Duino Elegies is Rilke’s most successful book, to put it mildly. Started much earlier but written most concentratedly during 1922, this book has had a huge impact in European language and poetry both in its original German and translations. This translation by Martyn Crucefix is remarkable and powerful, fulfilling the original in its attempt at defining the human position in understanding, or lack of understanding, the world. Rilke is contemplating our inability to see the world as it is because we are able to think about, try to alter it, rather than live in its ‘here and now.’

Dare I say I wolfed it down?  As a translated collection it was, and continues to be, highly praised. First published in 2006 and reprinted several times (my copy dated 2020.)  There is an introduction by Karen Leeder which helps to place the period of Rilke’s writing, his style and reflections on the work within the Elegies. The meaning of the content is briefly considered but I am certain there are myriads of articles and analysis on the whole and parts. 

My German language is a faded, mediocre ‘O’ level from 60 years ago so that’s no use. Reading the translation, I was immediately aware that the flow of images provided by the text with the emotional senses they provoked, would insist themselves into me. Did insist. I completed the Ten Elegies in one reading.  Admittedly, something I try with all new collections, but with Duino Elegies, I was impelled to continue to the end.

I am more of a subjective than an objective reader. The Introduction notes the date it was finally written as around 1922, when change was both potential and progressing. That his style was his all own, more in the thought-mould of Nietzsche, Feud, Picasso, Baudelaire, et al.
   For me, I also had the running thoughts of Jung and the universal unconscious puttering in and out. It was also pointed out, in 2006, that Elegies ‘is still modern.’ Now, almost twenty years later, this translation still feels that way. No doubt it will remain a classic for many years forward. New translations no doubt bringing continuing influences but this bar is set very high.

The elegies are set with the original text on the left page and the translation on the right. The length of the English page is frequently within a few lines of the original. I guess this was no mean feat. 

Th final twenty pages are a ‘Commentary’ and give a short content/explanation of each elegy.
I found these very useful as brief overviews describing in simpler form how Rilke moved through his ideas.

I have to rate the cycle of poems via the translation.  I found it a whirl of images, philosophical debates on the subject of humanity, on the position of animals, nature, death, and even the actuality of death. Individually each elegy gives pause for thought, discussion and elements of dispute. Such disputes are likely discussed within the next or another following elegy, which frequently follow lines of the previous but expand into new areas of description and ideas. We meet animals, fairies, statues, acrobats, lovers and children, amongst others, The cycle expands and returns, forming a universe of itself, within our own world and ideas. But beware, the conversation through the elegies seems balanced towards the void. That life is here and now, that acceptance of our place in the world should override our mental grasping for a life after death.

This English translation by Martin Crucefix of the Duino Elegies, by Rainer Maria Rilke are a ‘must read’. Classic in itself for almost twenty years, unlikely to be bettered for any student of poetry, language or philosophy.  
The blurb claims the elegies are ‘a passionate celebration of the here and now’ of  Rilke’s ‘enduring masterpiece.’  To which I must strongly agree that this all-encompassing collection will likely remain future-modern over the decades to come.

Martyn Crucefix has published numerous collections of poetry and won many awards for them.

The second book I bought from the author was:
Laozi: Daodejing, published 2016 by Enitharmon Press. paper £9.99 978 191039226 3

Still Winter!

The image of harsh winter is fading rapidly in many parts of Southern, Central and even East Anglia as climate change brings ever warmer temperatures across Britain. Of course the western and northern extremities still (including Scotland and Wales) suffer the harsher conditions and longer, but their intensity seems to be shortening. For me, living in what I call Middle England, where the Siberian winds still blow from the East, I have to claim ‘the winters are not as harsh as they used to be!’ I almost reminisce for the weeks of snow and ice, the frozen floods from the Thames across the Wick. For the feet of snow that accumulate in drifts at the sides of now hedgeless roads and the mystery of where the road actually exists in a flat, white landscape. But then I take my glasses off and thank my nearness to a gritted road and the rarity of such weather. However, I still worry that the change we’ve wrought will be our downfall and truly hope the winter gets no warmer.

Now, at the end of January, I have to report that the UK has had its warmest January on record and more storms than usual (4) where the winds have been over 90mph up to 100, in various parts of the country. Plus heavy rains in almost all parts of the UK which once again have produced wide flooding and impossible conditions for farmers, arable or stock. It seems we have tipped!

Bloomfield has been here before but this is a first time for Claude McKay. The former starts with a harsh scene of winter cold and deep snow but swiftly moves on to the ‘benefits’ of being prepared for a long winter by having plenty of ale and good company of household and neighbours to while away the worst of the weather by having a good time. McKay has a lighter snow-fall which maybe fanciful from an afternoon and over one particular winter night.

Winter Song – Poem by Robert Bloomfield.   (1766-1823)

Dear Boy, throw that Icicle down,
And sweep this deep Snow from the door:
Old Winter comes on with a frown;
A terrible frown for the poor.
In a Season so rude and forlorn
How can age, how can infancy bear
The silent neglect and the scorn
Of those who have plenty to spare?

Fresh broach’d is my Cask of old Ale,
Well-tim’d now the frost is set in;
Here’s Job come to tell us a tale,
We’ll make him at home to a pin.
While my Wife and I bask o’er the fire,
The roll of the Seasons will prove,
That Time may diminish desire,
But cannot extinguish true love.

O the pleasures of neighbourly chat,
If you can but keep scandal away,
To learn what the world has been at,
And what the great Orators say;
Though the Wind through the crevices sing,
And Hail down the chimney rebound,
I’m happier than many a king
While the Bellows blow Bass to the sound.
Abundance was never my lot:
But out of the trifle that’s given,
That no curse may alight on my Cot,
I’ll distribute the bounty of Heaven:
The fool and the slave gather wealth;
But if I add nought to my store,
Yet while I keep conscience in health,
I’ve a Mine that will never grow poor.

The Snow Fairy        By Claude McKay.  (1890-1948)
 I
Throughout the afternoon I watched them there, 
Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky, 
Whirling fantastic in the misty air, 
Contending fierce for space supremacy. 
And they flew down a mightier force at night, 
As though in heaven there was revolt and riot, 
And they, frail things had taken panic flight 
Down to the calm earth seeking peace and quiet. 
I went to bed and rose at early dawn 
To see them huddled together in a heap, 
Each merged into the other upon the lawn, 
Worn out by the sharp struggle, fast asleep. 
The sun shone brightly on them half the day, 
By night they stealthily had stol’n away. 
II
And suddenly my thoughts then turned to you 
Who came to me upon a winter’s night, 
When snow-sprites round my attic window flew, 
Your hair disheveled, eyes aglow with light. 
My heart was like the weather when you came, 
The wanton winds were blowing loud and long; 
But you, with joy and passion all aflame, 
You danced and sang a lilting summer song. 
I made room for you in my little bed, 
Took covers from the closet fresh and warm, 
A downful pillow for your scented head, 
And lay down with you resting in my arm. 
You went with Dawn. You left me ere the day, 
The lonely actor of a dreamy play. 

(From: Harlem Shadows, 1922)

Note: born in Jamaica, became US citizn

Sara Teasdale, Some Poems

 (August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933) USA.

Sara was born to a fairly wealthy family who owned two houses, designed by her mother. She had poor health for most of her childhood. In her late twenties she was ‘courted’ by several men, one of whom was the poet Vachel Lindsey but he withdrew as he felt he had too little financial prospect. She married Ernst Filsinger in Dec. 1914. 

Teasdale’s third poetry collection, Rivers to the Sea, published in 1915 was a bestseller, being reprinted several times.

In 1918 she won a Pulitzer Prize in 1917 for her poetry collection Love Songs. It was “made possible by a special grant from ‘The Poetry Society.’ The sponsoring organization now lists it as the earliest Pulitzer Prize for Poetry (inaugurated 1922).
The marriage failed, (To his surprise!) she moved homes when her husband was away for work and she divorced him in 1929. She became close to Vachel Lindsey again. Sara overdosed and died In January 1933.

She was a ‘lyrical’ poet and is very readable today. 

All poems from the book  Flame and Shadow

Gray Eyes

It was April when you came
The first time to me,
And my first look in your eyes
Was like my first look at the sea.
We have been together
Four Aprils now
Watching for the green
On the swaying willow bough;
Yet whenever I turn
To your gray eyes over me,
t is as though I looked
For the first time at the sea.

……………………..

In a Hospital: IV
Open Windows

Out of the window a sea of green trees
Lift their soft boughs like the arms of a dancer,
They beckon and call me, “Come out in the sun!”
But I cannot answer.
I am alone with Weakness and Pain,
Sick abed and June is going,
I cannot keep her, she hurries by
With the silver-green of her garments blowing.
Men and women pass in the street
Glad of the shining sapphire weather,
But we know more of it than they,
Pain and I together.
They are the runners in the sun,
Breathless and blinded by the race,
But we are watchers in the shade
Who speak with Wonder face to face.

The New Moon

Day, you have bruised and beaten me,
As rain beats down the bright, proud sea,
Beaten my body, bruised my soul,
Left me nothing lovely or whole—
Yet I have wrested a gift from you,
Day that dies in dusky blue:
For suddenly over the factories
I saw a moon in the cloudy seas—
A wisp of beauty all alone
In a world as hard and gray as stone—
Oh who could be bitter and want to die
When a maiden moon wakes up in the sky?

 Eight O’Clock

Supper comes at five o’clock,
At six, the evening star,
My lover comes at eight o’clock—
But eight o’clock is far.
How could I bear my pain all day
Unless I watched to see
The clock-hands laboring to bring
Eight o’clock to me.

If Death Is Kind

Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning,
We will come back to earth some fragrant night,
And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending
Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white.
We will come down at night to these resounding beaches
And the long gentle thunder of the sea,
Here for a single hour in the wide starlight
We shall be happy, for the dead are free.”

Swinburne: Selections from Poetical Works

Selections from the Poetical Works
of
Algernon Charles Swinburne

Pub. Chatto & Windus, 3rd edition, 1889

1837 -1909

Well, this is no review of the book, more brief comment on the poetry it contains, this particular book being 125 years old and o.p.

I have to admit it being my first rush into his writings and as the collection is so old I almost hope there must be many other poems, short or long that create a better overall impression.

There is no named editor for the selection so maybe from the most popular of the day or Swinburne’s own choice, maybe his friend Theodore Watts.  From the work here you would assume that his favourite pastime was living on the coast and spending much time collating verbs, adverbs and adjectives that would slide gratefully into seemingly endless ABAB; blank versed and sea-soaked with a bit of limited descriptive nature thrown in, poetry.  I like Tennyson, Chaucer and Milton and rolling description etc. but I fear, for me, Swinburne has over-egged a rather samey pudding.  I must admit that I partially exaggerate (?) as the ballad formats do work but then I get overwhelmed by the existence of just so much.

Full marks for maintaining levels of rhythm and rhyme that would trip all but the best. However, a reader of today ( well, me) would be thankful for greater variation in subjects and formats and perhaps a little lightness of touch in a few poems.  Comments are based on this, limited, content.  I am aware that he was part of the pre-raphaelite movement and wrote large amounts over many years and covered/experimented with different poetical genres.  He was extremely successful in his early years of writing, having public acclaim and disapproval in equal measure for pushing the subjective boundaries of the day.   I get the impression that he liked long poems, alliteration, repetition and verbiage, death and the darker elements of love.  Large quantities of which seem to both over-egg and dissipate the basic themes or direction of most of his poems despite great skill with words that facilitated his rhyming.  Below are a couple of his shorter poems that benefit (in my eyes) from being more succinct.  His later poetry could be considered calmer but maybe missing the sheer exuberance (desperation?) of his Ballads and early work.

Scattered throughout his poetry are some fine lines and ideas but for me they are lost in excess.  I am not sure whether I can’t see the wood for the trees or I am trapped in a thicket and can’t escape!   Swinburne surely wrote for effect, maybe to shock, and was talented in that respect but from this selected collection his themes are limited.  If we knew the selector of the verses we might have a partial answer.  His earlier verses produced public outrage, this collection has nothing dated so no clue gained there.

Some 39 poems (including several chunky extracts from his epics) and I found few that stood out as memorable for me.  I liked the idea behind ‘The Sunbows‘ but got, well, disinterested, I suppose, by the time I got to the end.  My failure may be as a ‘modern’ reader who has spent too much time on more concise poems, but I am not wholly convinced by that thought.  I suppose I should find a recently selected collection rather than one that is one hundred and twenty five years old.  However I read it in hope rather than expectation of finding much to savour.

I did quite like ‘A Forsaken Garden‘ and also ‘A Child’s Laughter‘ but they were a respite to the length of most others.  One or two ‘Cradle Songs‘ nearly got there but the stand-alone poem was ‘Iseult at Tintagel‘ (from Tristram of Lyonesse) which I found very interesting in subject and handling though still suffering from Swinburne’s usual overflow. Maybe I have just forgotten how to read and appreciate Ballads and Epic poetry.

I have found some shorter Swinburne poems that I prefer.  He was fond of  ‘Rondel’, a form he took from the French and a sample is shown below. The few I have found I like more.  If you look at his poetry more widely he did break ‘new ground’ in content for the period and suffered disapproval in many quarters for it.  Swinburne was part of the pre-raphaelite movement and maybe Christina Rosetti might be a stand-in for a muse (?) but skimming over his life offers only more questions and I don’t feel inclined to search out any serious biographies, sorry!  He has gained more respect again in recent years as his subjects suffer less criticism. Appreciation of his metrical innovation has been noted, perhaps despite his facility for excess and using old, excessively coloured wrappers!  But this specific collection has not gained me as a friend or regular reader.  I will have to take the advice of others before I venture much further with Algernon Charles Swinburne.
The other side of my coin might be that I am just feeling too old to read many epics or ballads of epic length when there is a welter of other poetry in various formats out there, neglected or otherwise.
0h What’s that?  Kid in a candy store?  Yes, I have dipped in this bag and found it not really to my liking so will have to try another dip.                                 See also Useful links Tag

A Forsaken Garden
In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
At the sea-down’s edge between windward and lee,
Walled round with rocks as an inland island,
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
The steep square slope of the blossomless bed
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses
Now lie dead.

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,
To the low last edge of the long lone land.
If a step should sound or a word be spoken,
Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest’s hand?
So long have the grey bare walks lain guestless,
Through branches and briars if a man make way,
He shall find no life but the sea-wind’s, restless
Night and day.

The dense hard passage is blind and stifled
That crawls by a track none turn to climb
To the strait waste place that the years have rifled
Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time.
The thorns he spares when the rose is taken;
The rocks are left when he wastes the plain.
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken,
These remain.

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not;
As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry;
From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not,
Could she call, there were never a rose to reply.
Over the meadows that blossom and wither
Rings but the note of a sea-bird’s song;
Only the sun and the rain come hither
All year long.

The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels
One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath.
Only the wind here hovers and revels
In a round where life seems barren as death.
Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,
Haply, of lovers none ever will know,
Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping
Years ago.

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, “Look thither,”
Did he whisper? “look forth from the flowers to the sea;
For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither,
And men that love lightly may die—but we?”
And the same wind sang and the same waves whitened,
And or ever the garden’s last petals were shed,
In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened,
Love was dead.

Or they loved their life through, and then went whither?
And were one to the endÑbut what end who knows?
Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither,
As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose.
Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them ?
What love was ever as deep as a grave ?
They are loveless now as the grass above them
Or the wave.

All are at one now, roses and lovers,
Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea.
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers
In the air now soft with a summer to be.
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter
Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep,
When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter
We shall sleep.

Here death may deal not again for ever;
Here change may come not till all change end.
From the graves they have made they shall rise up never,
Who have left nought living to ravage and rend.
Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing,
While the sun and the rain live, these shall be;
Till a last wind’s breath upon all these blowing
Roll the sea.

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,
Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead.

RONDEL
These many years since we began to be,
What have the gods done with us? what with me,
What with my love? they have shown me fates and fears,
Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea,
Grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veers,
These many years.

With her, my love, with her have they done well?
But who shall answer for her? who shall tell
Sweet things or sad, such things as no man hears?
May no tears fall, if no tears ever fell,
From eyes more dear to me than starriest spheres
These many years!

But if tears ever touched, for any grief,
Those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf,
Deep double shells wherethrough the eye-flower peers,
Let them weep once more only, sweet and brief,
Brief tears and bright, for one who gave her tears
These many years.

‘Winter Lines’ and ‘Facsimiles’: A Graph Review

A Graph Review:   50 upwards to highpoint 75

Winter Lines     by  Daniel Healy is his first poetry collection, published by Cinnamon Press:  9781905614578.    

This Review was first published in 2013. With slight editing it is republished in January 2024

A second volume, Facsimiles,   9781907090189    published in 2010 also by Cinnamon Press,
both priced £7.99.

The acknowledgements show Daniel has been published in numerous journals though any previously unpublished lines for this collection have not been highlighted

Both volumes contain 64 poems, all brief and bare bones of an image that hold the moment as they are read, or steal in to open images and memories in the readers mind.

 I don’t really do analysis, these reviews are just to decide if I feel a book is worth reading and to keep on the shelf to be read again   ……So there should now be a but…..     No, but, just as I ‘feel’……..    One point, though I suppose it is not really important, is that I like to see the dateline of when individual poems are written and they are not given here.  Dates often appear in anthologies so perhaps I just ask too much.  In a single collection a timeline might give some little additional insight into the poems and poet.  The other half of me counters that each poem should stand alone unless intended as a group or theme, in which case the author/editor  would no doubt indicate as such.    Just read the poetry and follow where it leads.  

‘Winter Lines’, as  befits title and cover, offers  poems that are concise, sometimes to the extreme, maybe.  At times bleak but always having clear-shot almost photo images.  Some are blatant, others are liable to conjure empathy and memory.  For me, different readings over the year has skewed  the view of some individual poem, verse or line, maybe giving me hints of mild winter depression but offering the strength of imagery to sustain.  The whole hits the mark of a winter collection, and yes, there are glimpses of sun.  For me this title will sit firmly on the shelf and, more importantly be read for its content and style.

Regular favourite poems:  Fragment;   Late December;  Planting;  Belated

‘Facsimiles’.   Published in 2010,    978 1907090189           

Moving on from the first collection the overall feel is slightly lighter, still stark imagery  that  I can either accept or, like painting with numbers, infill around the individual core with my own colours and thoughts.   The style remains the same this time round but his word-palette seems a little  brighter.  Maybe re-reading the two collections together I am seeing the similarities more than I ought. This collection has as many lines and poems to arrest the attention as his first collection, indeed more.

 Suggestions of my favourites might change if I wrote tomorrow, as they vary slightly every time I read.

Today’s money’s worth are:      Foundations;   Beached;    From Memory;   The Gaze

Here, the satisfaction of reading aloud always depends on the poem but only starts to work for me when there are eight, albeit short, lines in these collections.  Daniel’s ability and need to pare down offers much in his four and six line compositions but eight or more give both description and depth as they are read aloud to leave the air with a stillness that allows your mind freedom to accept or search for the emotion within.

This is another volume to keep beside his first, leaving space for the next, though maybe I hope for a little change of pace in the third.

Waiting for the Moon, poems by Bo Juyi

A Graph Review:  50 with highpoint 75

published 2012.                        New translations by Arthur Waley.

  978 1604190472               Axios Press                   £6.99           paperback

Buy now from Amazon

Published in 2012 with a forward by the editor, Craig R Smith, which briefly introduces the reader to the and poets life and philosphy.  The translator’s introduction gives a further,  clear picture of the life of Bo Jui and in ten pages beautifully outlines the struggle of the young boy and his difficulties and disappointments  through his personal and especially professional highs and lows.

The translations we are offered would appear to give a good insight into the emotions and nature of the man.  Without knowing, or in my case, able to know, the original writings of these poems we are reliant on the translation and style of Arthur Waley.    Additionally are  short stories  that colour yet more corners of the man.  For me there is a continuity of style and clarity of meaning throughout. The varied length and content of the verses and writing carried me along to the end in one sitting.
My knowledge of China’s past is limited and nil of the period of his life (772-846) so it was quite enlightening to read the poems with its vignettes of the period. We see images of his life, his loves and passion for nature and the seasons.  Also, as a civil servant, both in esteem and disgrace we can read of his empathy for the people, sympathy for the poor.

 A small selection of my favourite poems:

‘Red Cockatoo,’
‘Passing Tian-men Street in Chang’an  and Seeing a distant View of Zhongshan-nan Mountain’ (unusually the title is almost as long as the poem but gave me both vibrant image and pause for thought)
‘Since I Lay ill’

Especially with this book I would recommend you read it all if the man and his work are new to you.  Dipping in after that is well worth it.  This book offers some interesting and sometimes provoking imagery via elements of historical facts of living, ageing and loving in  a China of over 1200 years ago.  Through his words, his pictures, we can see and even feel that his writing and emotion may not be so afar from poets of today or of any period.

 Quoting from the last two lines of his ‘Last Poem‘:

 ‘When this superintendence of trifling affairs is done,
I lie back on my pillows and sleep with my face to the South’

(towards his birthplace and childhood)  throughout the book you see the hankering for the simplicity of his childhood surroundings.

 Super value at £6.99 paperback

This post first published October 2013