A Visit, TLS 14 Jan 2014

A Visit

I went to see him. He was old then
And laughed at what he forgot and found
As if out of thin air, his mind elsewhere.
The ground floor flat not anywhere
He'd call home but where he lived happily enough.
It had never been the plan. And yet to me
The books, the tall window and the view,
The few paintings, landscapes by his wife,
And by his daughter, his eagerness for me
To listen with him for more than an hour
To Shostakovich's '24 Preludes & Fugues'
Seemed an idyll of an enviable kind, a script
I'd write for myself for when things fall apart
Piecemeal like that late autumn afternoon.
He'd showed me what he'd kept, letters from
Great poets he'd known, old photographs
Of himself and X, and Y, some manuscripts
That had come his way, his own books
And those by others in his long-gone world.
The rest he said was archived somewhere,
Which seemed to cut him short, until suddenly:
'Dying is for the living,' he exclaimed, keenly,
Something he liked to say, 'There's no future
In posterity.' I'd heard the same before, and
'Never look to be wise. Speak your mind.
Wisdom is for fools.' And then he rose
That we should neither outstay his welcome.
A bloom of wine hung in my lungs long after
I got home and his talk of Cold War days
Ran on like a newsreel in my head until
That flicker and flap as the spool reaches its end
And I sat on a moment in the dark, moved
By a sudden understanding of my life.

ANDREW McNEILLIE

The Mill by Andrew Motion, TLS

The Mill

Over the road
and twice the size of the house we lived in;
five stories at least; white clapboard;
wide as a barn.

The cat reconnoitred.
I followed the cat
clambering this side or that
of the mounting-block steps,
then ducking the sack
that drooped like a sleepy eye
almost to block the door but not
and in.

Darkness. Light.
Shadows that jigged
with bran-dust and wheat-dust
and softened the pulleys, the beams,
the ladder fading away
to discover this attic or that
where the miller must be
ignoring me
on my porridgy floor.

And hushed.
But roaring in fact –
the dry continual biblical thunder
of mill-wheels grinding together.
Surely
the heaviest weight in the world;
furious too
with a fury of infinite patience.

Where was I now? I'd forgotten.
No, no, I remembered.
Looking for something I was
like the cat
looking
here between rows
and rows of comfortable sacks
like soldiers asleep.

Looking for this
perhaps –
this handful of grain in a gush
overflowing my hands
at a rickety funnel
like money but free
and priceless
if only I caught it.

Maybe not this.
Maybe just wanting
the doorway again
resisting the weight at my back
breathing and grinding,
the weight and the dark,
and staring not inside but out
the way I came in.
Was that really my home there
over the road?
That acacia tree by the gate
with its scribble of yellow?
Those snapdragons snapping?
My mother afloat
in a window pane
like a bubble frozen in water?

Surely, again,
but surely, surely not mine.
Besides
I had turned into dust.
White hands; white clothes; white hair.
And next thing would drift away
through white air.

ANDREW MOTION

Byron's She Walks in Beauty - Text from The Poets' Corner

She walks in beauty, like the night
  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
  Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
  Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
  Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
  How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
  But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
  A heart whose love is innocent!"
from 'The Poets' Corner' by John Lithgow.

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Byron's I would I were a Careless Child - Text from The Poets' Corner

"I would I were a careless child
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

Fortune! Take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this—again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.

Few are my years, and yet I feel
The world was ne'er designed for me:
Ah! Why do dark'ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth!—wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved—but those I loved are gone;
Had friends—my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart—the heart—is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,

Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same,

And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boist'rous joy is but a name.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,

My hope, my comforter, and my all!

How cold must be my bosom now,

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!

Without a sigh I would resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,

To make that calm contentment mine,

Which virtue knows, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men—

I seek to shun, not hate mankind;

My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.

Oh! that to me the wings were given

Which bear the turtle to her nest!

Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,

To flee away and be at rest.

from 'The Poets' Corner' by John Lithgow.

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The Lake Isle of Innisfree

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree.

And a small cabin build there, of clay and

wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for

the honey bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace

comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to

where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a

purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always, night and

day,

I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore

While I stand on the roadway or on the pave-ments gray,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

W, B. Yeats.

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Poems on war: Seamus Heaney was inspired by Edward Thomas

Hi,

I saw this and thought you should see it:

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/oct/26/seamus-heaney-edward-thomas-war-poem

Sent via the Guardian's iPhone application.

Get it here

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John Keats, Autumn

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies?

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