Poetry and other

This poem is by Margaret Stanley-Wrench, the last third in particular is lovely.

Hinterland

I like the backs of houses. Fronts are smug,

Stiff and formal, masks which smile at neighbours.

These roofs, shrugging, relaxed, these sun-warmed bricks,

Smooth, rounded bays, they are like lovers in bed

At ease, knowing and known. Cats stalk here.

The wagging lines of washing wave, the knops

Of hollyhocks knock and stroke the walls. A sunflower

Rises, bearded god with a black face.

And the swarthy, smiling, grape-bloomed neighbours stand

Amazed between the vines, the flower, the walls,

Themselves placid yet savage deities

Of these long gardens, of these hinterlands,

Green, warm and secret territory here

Like love behind the streets' correct facade.

Love, fierce and unexpected, sharp, uneven,

Sun and flower, the darkness and the sap

Surging through leaf and body, the quick flashed

Recognition of opened windows, white

Glances meeting, and doors, open wide.

There is another short poem by her here.

Otherwise I have mostly been re-reading - Flowers for the Judge (1953)by Margery Allingham, one of her charming light reads; The Corinthian (1940) by Georgette Heyer, not one of her best but with some funny moments and the usual amusing conversations; and The Gorgon in the Cupboard (2004), an excellent short story by Patricia McKillip, who is one of my favourite authors. This is one of the stories inspired by the Pre-Raphelite artists set (Victorian era), which all have women trying to live a human life in the confines of their society. We all need to live within the bounds of our society, but some times and some people seem to chafe more than others.

Other reading - Perry, Prozchazkova and Dylan Thomas

The Season of Secret Wishes by Iva Prozchazkova is a pleasant but unexceptional children's book of the girl moves to new place and meets interesting people type; only made slightly more interesting by being set in Prague before the Iron Curtain fell.

A Christmas Visitor is a short mystery novel by Anne Perry, and I'm sure I would have found the ending very moving if I hadn't got bored with the plodding pace and poor characterisation and skipped to the last chapter halfway through. And I was pleased to see an ending where they really did think family and justice more important than status and money.

Dylan Thomas' poetry did not fail to enthrall however - well, some of his poetry, he can be a bit opaque. This is my favourite.

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.


Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953; The Season of Secret Wishes first published 1988, first translated into English 1989, Berlin Wall fell 9/11/1989; A Christmas Visitor first published 2004

Poetry and Wislawa Szymborska

When I read a translation, I often wonder how much is the author and how much the translator. Here are 2 translations of the same poem, which is about an idea so translates better than most I should think. I like lines from both poems. Szymborska won the Nobel Literature prize in 1996 for her poetry, and is a very interesting poet.

In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself
The buzzard never says it is to blame.
The panther wouldn't know what scruples mean.
When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame.
If snakes had hands, they'd claim their hands were clean.

A jackal doesn't understand remorse.
Lions and lice don't waver in their course.
Why should they, when they know they're right?

Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton,
In every other way they're light.

On this third planet of the sun,
among the signs of bestiality
A clear conscience is Number One.


IN PRAISE OF SELF- DEPRECATION

The Buzzard has nothing to fault himself with.
Scruples are alien to the black panther.
Piranhas do not doubt the rightness of their actions.
The rattlesnake approves of himself without reservations.

The self-critical jackal does not exist.
The locust, alligator, trichina, horsefly
Live as they live and are glad of it.

The killer-whale’s heart weighs one hundred kilos
but in other respects it is light.

There is nothing more animal-like
than a clear conscience
on the third planet of the Sun.

There are more translated poems here, try the two about the soul (one poem, different translators, one version much better than the other I think) and my favourite, A Word on Statistics.

Poetry and WH Auden

I have been reading WH Auden's poetry lately. If you want to try some of his more popular poms, here are links to Roman Wall Blues, Lay Your Sleeping Head, or Funeral Blues.

Auden sometimes writes longer works in sections, each section having a different rhythm, style, line length and so on. His poem on the death of the poet WB Yeats is a great example of this, it is like 3 different but linked poems. I love the third section.

This is a section from The Quest, I thought it was amusing. Sections X, XI and XV are interesting too.

XIV. The Way
Fresh addenda are published every day
To the encyclopedia of the Way,

Linguistic notes and scientific explanations,
And texts for schools with modernised spelling and illustrations.

Now everyone knows the hero must choose the old horse,
Abstain from liquor and sexual intercourse,

And look out for a stranded fish to be kind to:
Now everyone thinks he could find, had he a mind to,

The way through the waste to the chapel in the rock
For a vision of the Triple Rainbow or the Astral Clock,

Forgetting his information comes mostly from married men
Who liked fishing and a flutter on the horses now and then.

And how reliable can any truth be that is got
By observing oneself and then just inserting a Not?

W. H. Auden 1907 - 1973

Poetry and Kathleen Raine

There is a poem by Kathleen Raine called Spell of Creation in two of my books of poetry for children, which I have admired for several years, it speaks to me every time I read it. Today I decided to look for other poems by her, and found three on my shelves, my favourite being Envoi in The New Oxford Book of English Verse (the one edited by Helen Gardner). This is part of the second verse:

See how against the weight in the bone
The hawk hangs perfect in the air -
The blood pays dear to raise it there

And I found other poems on the internet at Old Poetry and PoemHunter, where I was particularly struck by Transit of the Gods and Change - here are 2 verses

Change
Says the moon to the waters,
All is flowing.
...
You must change said,
Said the worm to the bud,
Though not to a rose

I haven't read all the poems on the two internet sites yet. I also found a comment about her being in the poetic line of William Blake, which I can see. I didn't really like Blake when I was in my twenties except for the few famous poems like The Tyger that just about everybody likes, finding him a bit weird, but now I like his weirder poetry a lot.

Kathleen Raine 1908 - 2003