GHOSTS One need not be a chamber to be haunted, One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place. Far safer, of a midnight meeting External ghost, Than an interior confronting That whiter host. Far safer through an Abbey gallop, The stones achase, Than, moonless, one’s own self encounter In lonesome place. Ourself, behind ourself concealed, Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment, Be horror’s least. The prudent carries a revolver, He bolts the door, O’erlooking a superior spectre More near. FROM: Emily Dickinson SELECTED POEMS Unabridged Dover Thrift Editions
Tag: Every day
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 94 17 June 2020: Quotidian Poetry: W. B. Yeats (1865 – 1939)
SAILING TO BYZANTIUM That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees, —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. II An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. III O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. IV Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. FROM: LONGMAN ENGLISH SERIES POETRY 1900 TO 1975 Editor George MacBeth
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 88 11 June 2020: Quotidian Poetry: William Barnes (1801 – 1886)
THE WIFE A-LOST
Since I noo mwore do zee your fe{‘a}ce,
Up ste{‘a}rs or down below,
I’ll zit me in the lwonesome ple{‘a}ce,
Where flat-bough’d beech do grow;
Below the beeches’ bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An’ I don’t look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.
Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
In walks in zummer het,
I’ll goo alwone where mist do ride,
Drough trees a-drippèn wet;
Below the ra{‘i}n-wet bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,
As I do grieve at hwome.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
Your va{‘i}ce do never sound,
I’ll eat the bit I can avword,
A-vield upon the ground;
Below the darksome bough, my love,
Where you did never dine,
An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,
As I at hwome do pine.
Since I do miss your va{‘i}ce an’ fe{‘a}ce
In pra{‘y}er at eventide,
I’ll pray wi’ woone sad va{‘i}ce vor gre{‘a}ce
To goo where you do bide;
Above the tree an’ bough, my love,
Where you be gone avore,
An’ be a-w{‘a}itèn vor me now,
To come vor evermwore.
FROM:
The Oxford Library of English Poetry
Volume II
Darley to Heaney
Chosen & edited by John Wain
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 87 10 June 2020: Quotidian Poetry: John Wilmot (1647 – 1680)
AGAINST CONSTANCY Tell me no more of constancy, The frivolous pretense Of cold age, narrow jealousy, Disease, and want of sense. Let duller fools, on whom kind chance Some easy heart has thrown, Despairing higher to advance, Be kind to one alone. Old men and weak, whose idle flame Their own defects discovers, Since changing can but spread their shame, Ought to be constant lovers. But we, whose hearts do justly swell With not vainglorious pride, Who know how we in love excel, Long to be often tried. Then bring my bath, and strew my bed, As each kind night returns, I’ll change a mistress till I’m dead – And fate change me to worms. FROM: The Oxford Library of English Poetry Volume II Sackville to Keats Chosen & edited by John Wain
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 86 9 June 2020: Quotidian Poetry: Edmund Spenser (1552/3 – 1599)
From: THE RUINES OF TIME A length, they all to mery London came, To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse, That to me gaue this Lifes first natiue sourse: Though from another place I take my name, A house of auncient fame. There when they came, whereas those bricky towres, The which on Temmes brode aged backe doe ryde, Where now the studious Lawyers haue their bowers, Where whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde, Till they decayd through pride: Next whereunto there standes a stately place, Where oft I gained giftes and goodly grace Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell, Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case: But Ah here fits not well Old woes but ioyes to tell Against the Brydale daye, which is not long: Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song. FROM: The Oxford Library of English Poetry Volume I Spenser to Dryden Chosen & edited by John Wain
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 81 4 June 2020: Quotidian Poetry: Miklós Radnóti (1909-1944)
SIMPLE SONG OF MY WIFE As she comes in, cackles burst from the door, The potted plants all stamp, shaking the floor, A blond streak, small and drowsy, in her hair Cheeps like a frightened sparrow in the straw. Clumsily whirling towards her through the air, The ageing light-flex too lets out a squawk: Everything spins – to jot it down, no chance. She has come back. She has been gone all day. She bears an enormous poppy in her hands To drive death, my adversary, away. 5 January 1940 FROM: Miklós Radnóti FORCED MARCH Translated by George Gömöri and Clive Wilmer Enitharmon Press
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 79 2 June 2020: Quotidian Poetry: George Mackay Brown (1921 – 1966)
DREAM OF WINTER These were the sounds that dinned upon his ear – The spider’s fatal purring, and the grey Trumpeting of old mammoths locked in ice. No human sound there was: only the evil Shriek of the violin sang of human woe And conquest and defeat, and the round drums Sobbed as they beat. He saw the victim nailed against the night With ritual stars. The skull, a ruin of dreams, Leaned in the wind, merry with curl and thorn. The long robes circled. A penitential wail For the blue lobster and the yellow cornstalk And the hooded victim, broken to let men live, Flashed from their throats. Then all the faces turned from the Winter Man. From the loch’s April lip a swan slid out In a cold rhyme. The year stretched like a child And rubbed its eyes on light. Spring on the hill With lamb and tractor, lovers and burning heather. Byres stood open. The wind’s blue fingers laid A migrant on the rock. FROM: The Faber Book of 20th Century Verse Edited by John Heath-Stubbs & David Wright
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 75 29 May 2020: Quotidian Poetry: T.S. Eliot (1888 – 1965)
MARINA
Quis hic locus quae
Regio, quae mundi plaga?
What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the
fog
What images return
O my daughter.
Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird,
meaning
Death
Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death
Those who suffer the ecstacy of the animals, meaning
Death
Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place
What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger –
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the
Eye
Whisper and small laughter between leaves and hurrying
Feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.
Bowsprit cracked with ice and paint cracked with heat.
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September.
Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.
The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live for a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.
What seas what shores what granite islands towards my
timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog
My daughter.
FROM:
Collected Poems
1909-1962
T.S. Eliot
Faber Paperbacks
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 74 28 May 2020: Quotidian Poetry: Beowulf and Grendel (8th Century England)
From: BEOWULF AND GRENDEL Attend! We have heard of the thriving of the throne of Denmark, how the folk-kings flourished in former days, how those royal athelings earned that glory. Was it not Scyld Shefing that shook the halls, Took mead-benches, taught encroaching foes to fear him – who, found in childhood, lacked clothing? Yet he lived and prospered, grew in strength and stature under the heavens until the clans settled in the sea-coasts neighbouring over the whale-road all must obey him and give tribute. He was a good king! FROM: Beowulf and Grendel A Verse Translation by Michael Alexander Penguin 60s
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 74 28 May 2020: Airing the winter duvet – Summer is here!
Bit by bit I am planting in the flower garden. It is surrounded on three sides by fuchsia so is the only part of the garden with any real protection from the wind, and even so …
