A trio of Thistles: three poems by three poets

Thistles                                                                       by John Clare        1793- 1864

Where the broad sheep walk bare and brown

With scant grass pining after showers

And winds go fanning up and down

The little strawy bents and nodding flowers,

There the huge thistle spurred with many thorns

The suncracked uplands’ russet swells adorns.

 

Not undevoid of beauty, there they come,

Armed warriors waiting neither suns nor showers,

Guarding the little clover plats to bloom

sheep nor oxen dare not crop their flowers,

Unsheathing their own knobs of tawny flowers

When Summer cometh in her hottest hours.

 

The sheep when hunger presses sore

May nip the clover round its nest

But soon the thistle wounding sore

Relieves it from each brushing guest

That leaves a bit of wool behind

The yellow hammer loves to find.

 

The bee will make its bloom a bed,

The bumble bee in tawny brown,

And one in jacket fringed with red

Will rest upon its velvet down

When over taken in the rain

And wait till sunshine comes again.

 

And there are times when travel goes

Along the sheep tracks’ beaten ways

That pleasure many a praise bestows

Upon its blossom’s pointed rays

When other things are parched beside

And hot days leaves it in its pride.

ed:   I am guilty of leaving out verses 3,4,5,7 and 8, purely for  reasons of space ( included are 1,2,6,9 and 10).  Punctuation and spelling is likely to have been ‘tidied up’from his original mss.  This and another, shorter, poem entitled ‘The Thistle’, in full, can be found  in ‘This Happy Spirit‘  published by the John Clare Society  978 095641133 4, with superb linocuts by Carry Akroyd.

…………………………………………………………..

thistleThistle.                                    by    Laurie Lee                                                               1914-1997

Thistle, blue bunch of daggers

rattling upon the wind,

saw-tooth that separates

the lips of grasses.

 

Your wound in childhood was

a savage shock of joy

that set bees on fire

and the loud larks singing.

 

Your head enchanted then

smouldering among flowers

filled the whole sky with smoke

and sparks of seed.

 

Now from your stabbing bloom’s

nostalgic point of pain

ghosts of those summers rise

rustling across my eyes.

 

Seeding a magic thorn

to prick the memory

to start in my icy flesh

fevers of long lost fields.

……………………………………………………………………..

Thistle’s….                                                  by  Jean Whitfield       1941-84

…… roots quiver

like thin people

stick-limbed

bunched for warmth

leaves corrugate

would probe fingernails

pierce feet

score skin

ready for basting

made of wirewool

its head of hair

would scream through goblets

that tormented

untouchable

bulge of purple.

……………………………………………………………………………

I was certain Edward Thomas and DH Lawrence had written on ‘Thistles’  but it seems not:  ‘Nettles’, yes.  At least not in the places I have looked.  I may well end up researching for an ‘Anthology of Weeds’ but then ‘what is a weed but a flower in the wrong place?’   or someone else’s quote to that effect!

Three poems:   Clare following mostly the rules of the day using iambs (feet) and ABABCC ryme scheme pretty strictly throughout his observational poem. Pure detail and simple acceptance of the existence and beauty and usefulness of this plant, as he had for all things in nature.

Lee writing in simple blank verse; visual but less specific in details.   5 verses, each with four or five lines.    You could, in fact, reduce each verse into two longer lines or even write them each as a single line sentence. Would this change anything?    Quite likely, the spaces between the lines give your mind time to form an image which gains definition as you read the finallines.  Starting in ‘the present’, by the end the author may be seen as old  (‘icy flesh’)  and the ‘magic thorn to prick the memory’  maybe suggests a rising sense of loss at the rousing of memory for ‘fevers of long lost fields’, of  childhood exploits.

Whitfield:    No chance of lining this short poem into a pure single sentence as the words descriptive clash against each other.  The lines breathe the punctuation but you might have to read it more than once to find the sentence stops rather then the commas.    The only poem to include, let alone start with the root (uniquely?) and it slides gratingly upwards to its ‘bulge of purple’.   No minute observation, no hint of self-absorption but maybe this time an anger at its apparent intention to hurt.  As they can.  Another poets view of that self-same jack-of-all-soils, the thistle.

Three poems which follow the core of their periods.

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About poetryparc2

Here goes: I write a bit of poetry, sometimes about poetry and any sort of books I take a fancy to. I seem to have a preference for seeing the changes from the Victorian period through to the 1930's, maybe 50's. But, and a big but, could carry that right up to current poetry/performance poetry. Though sometimes my seeming preference for 'imagist' and Nature' might unnerve me for too much too modern. However, I do like to range widely over poetry, and fiction, any and all periods. I also like finding (if only for me) regional or partly forgotten poems and poets. Maybe all this is too eclectic to have a themed 'Blog' but so be it....... I also attempt fiction that might add up to a small mole-hill one day. Plus reviewing new or old books that are relevant to my enthusiasms of Crime fiction, the Arts, Natural History and Special Education. This is on 'wordparc'. I try to record honestly what I think but if something is too bad (to my mind, others may love it!!) then I will not 'blog'. There, what's that if not seemingly random!
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