Showing posts with label British poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label British poetry. Show all posts

"Into my heart an air that kills"


Into my heart an air that kills
  From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
  What spires, what farms are those?

This is the land of lost content,
  I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
  And cannot come again.


A.E. Housman (1859-1936) spent much of his life as a Latin professor at Trinity College, Cambridge, concentrating on arcane areas of Latin scholarship and acquiring a reputation as aloof and demanding. He seemed an unlikely candidate to have written one of the most beloved poetry collections in English.

His A Shropshire Lad was published in a tiny edition in 1896. According to Housman himself, his style had been shaped by Shakespeare, the Border Ballads of Scotland and the poems of Germany's Heinrich Heine. Inspired by those models, Housman created a unique voice that reminds us of poetry's ability to produce heart-shaking emotion with a handful of words.

Housman's collection was a book people loved to read and share: Thomas Hardy received a copy at Christmas in 1902. Later admirers included Robert Graves, Robert Lowell and Sylvia Plath. Randall Jarrell liked Housman's poetry so much he wrote his Vanderbilt master's thesis about it. T.S. Eliot said simply, "We should all write poetry like Housman, if only we could." 


"No one so much as you"

Edward Thomas in 1911

No one so much as you
loves this my clay,
or would lament as you
its dying day.


You know me through and through
though I have not told,
and though with what you know
you are not bold.

None ever was so fair
as I thought you:
not a word can I bear
spoken against you.

All that I ever did
for you seemed coarse
compared with what I hid
nor put in force.

Scarce my eyes dare meet you
lest they should prove
I but respond to you
and do not love.

We look and understand,
we cannot speak
except in trifles and
words the most weak.

I at the most accept
your love, regretting
that is all: I have kept
a helpless fretting

that could not return
all that you gave
and could not ever burn
with the love you have,

till sometimes it did seem
better it were
never to see you more
than linger here

with only gratitude
instead of love--
a pine in solitude
cradling a dove.

Edward Thomas, February 1916

Edward Thomas is often grouped with the "war poets", and that seems unfair. Few of his poems are about war. Many more are about the solitude of a human life and the struggle to feel worthy of another person's affection. They are some of the most heart-breaking poems I've ever read, yet painstakingly composed formally.

I always assumed this one was about Thomas's relationship with his wife Helen, but she told his biographer, R. George Thomas, that the poem was about his mother, Mary Elizabeth Thomas. In a letter to Helen dated February 24, 1916, the poet wrote, "As to the other verses about love [the implication is that the poem above is one of these], you know that my usual belief is that I don't and can't love and haven't done for something near 20 years. You know too that you don't think my nature really compatible with love, being so clear and critical."

Thomas's feeling of being unable to love was likely rooted in his profound doubts about his own worth and identity, but the fact is that, from 1913 until his death in April 1917, Thomas had a very close--and apparently loving--friendship with Robert Frost. Twenty days after Thomas was killed at the front, Frost wrote: "Edward Thomas was the only brother I ever had." Their letters to one another, published by Handsel Books in 2003, provide important insights into both poets and their work.




























Edward Thomas had this photograph of his wife Helen in his pocket when he was killed by an artillery shell in the Battle of Arras on Easter Monday (April 16), 1916. (Photo from the BBC)
 

"The Voice"

Thomas Hardy in 1914 (Photo by E.O. Hoppe)


Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But, as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Traveling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?

Thus I: faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.

December 1912

A writer in a Spanish newspaper once quipped that Thomas Hardy had the amazing good fortune to be "one of the finest novelists of the 19th century, and one of the finest poets of the 20th." It's true: Hardy gave up writing fiction after 1895, partly because of the hostility he faced after publishing Jude the Obscure. Hardy had been writing poetry since his teenaged years, and he released Wessex Poems, his first collection, in 1898, at the age of 58.

Over the next 30 years, Hardy published more than a thousand poems. They are among the best English verse ever written and are especially loved by other poets. Ezra Pound, Dylan Thomas and Philip Larkin are among the diverse group of writers who championed--and learned from--Hardy's mastery of English verse.

"The Voice," written after the death of Hardy's wife Emma in 1912, is a prime example of Hardy's ability to take up the English poetic tradition and put it to his own passionate, personal use. It is musical and intricately patterned, but all is at the service of the speaker's profound disquiet--as we might expect from the man who described poetry as "emotion put into measure".

Composers such as Ralph Vaughan Williams and Benjamin Britten have found Hardy's verse appealing, too. Some of the best settings are by British composer Gerald Finzi; I've included a recording of one of his songs below.


Like his novels, Hardy's poems celebrate the Dorset countryside he loved. (Photo by Richard Tulloch)

"A slice of wedding cake"


Why have such scores of lovely, gifted girls
   Married impossible men?
Simple self-sacrifice may be ruled out,
   And missionary endeavour, nine times out of ten.

Repeat "impossible men": not merely rustic,
   Foul-tempered or depraved
(Dramatic foils chosen to show the world
   How well women behave, and always have behaved).

Impossible men: idle, illterate,
   Self-pitying, dirty, sly,
For whose appearance even in City parks
   Excuses must be made to casual passers-by.

Has God's supply of tolerable husbands
   Fallen, in fact, so low?
Or do I always over-value woman
  At the expense of man?
                                               Do I?
                                                            It might be so.

Robert Graves (1895-1985) was one of the finest lyric poets of the 20th century in any language. He wrote delightful light verse, too. The first link below will let you hear him read this poem at Hunter College in New York in December 1966.