Poetry

[Padraig]

....I have, thanks to you, promoted Emily ......

That calls for an encore!

The poem 'The Chariot' was published shortly after Emily's death. It was an edited version to fit prevailing beliefs about death and proper attitudes to it, and was in the first commercial publication to bring Dickinson's poetry to a wider audience. Other more scholarly editions have since appeared and which have restored the original texts - which of course did not have titles.




Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me -
The Carriage held but just Ourselves -
And Immortality.

We slowly drove - He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labour and my leisure too,
For His Civility -

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess - in the Ring -
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain -
We passed the Setting Sun -

Or rather - He passed Us -
The Dews grew quivering and Chill -
For only Gossamer, my Gown -
My Tippet - only Tulle -

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground -
The Roof was scarcely visible -
The Cornice - in the Ground -

Since then - 'tis Centuries - and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were towards Eternity -

Emily Dickinson 1863 Published 1890

[johncorrigan]

Thank you, Padraig. Following your recent posts I went looking in the closest bookshop for some Emily Dickinson, but could only find a 700-page book, more than I was prepared for. However I did consider it, but decided that my £20 might be more usefully spent on 'The Poems of Norman MacCaig'. Most of the material I have is post-1960, but this book, edited by his son, Ewan, has some older poems from the period which Ewan describes as 'where my Dad started to find his voice'. I've been enjoying these older pieces very much.

This one is called 'False Summer'.

False Summer

False summer’s here and the canal’s
Green water breathes with lover’s kisses,
And buildings deep as herons stand
In the whirlpool of their own wishes.

The buds that made our winter tender
Feel the leaf aching and begin
Its million-year-old two-inch journey
Into the parish of the sun.

But beyond the yellow light are lurking
Microbes of frost, and in the air
Are ghosts of claws that, one clear night,
Will pinch to ashes the cheated flower.

The water will be black and glassy
Against the brittle grass-stems, and
Bewildered lovers will remember
What once flew in the freezing wind.

Norman MacCaig (April 1948)

At the weekend in Embra I found a more manageable book of Emily's poems and am enjoying those.

[Padraig]

Thank you, Padraig. Following your recent posts I went looking in the closest bookshop for some Emily Dickinson, but could only find a 700-page book, more than I was prepared for. However I did consider it, but decided that my £20 might be more usefully spent on 'The Poems of Norman MacCaig'. Most of the material I have is post-1960, but this book, edited by his son, Ewan, has some older poems from the period which Ewan describes as 'where my Dad started to find his voice'. I've been enjoying these older pieces very much.

This one is called 'False Summer'.

False Summer

False summer’s here and the canal’s
Green water breathes with lover’s kisses,
And buildings deep as herons stand
In the whirlpool of their own wishes.

The buds that made our winter tender
Feel the leaf aching and begin
Its million-year-old two-inch journey
Into the parish of the sun.

But beyond the yellow light are lurking
Microbes of frost, and in the air
Are ghosts of claws that, one clear night,
Will pinch to ashes the cheated flower.

The water will be black and glassy
Against the brittle grass-stems, and
Bewildered lovers will remember
What once flew in the freezing wind.

Norman MacCaig (April 1948)

At the weekend in Embra I found a more manageable book of Emily's poems and am enjoying those.

That 700-pager is the devil to hold open, John, but very useful for reference. I was going to recommend Emily Dickinson ed Helen Mcneill, in Everyman Poetry, but I see you have one. I hope it's not the Wordsworth Poetry one!

Notice how Emily's dashes change the apparent rhythm of her hymn-like verses - somebody said you could sing most of her poems to the tune of Amazing Grace. I've tried it out on a few and it's true!

[johncorrigan]

That 700-pager is the devil to hold open, John, but very useful for reference. I was going to recommend Emily Dickinson ed Helen Mcneill, in Everyman Poetry, but I see you have one. I hope it's not the Wordsworth Poetry one!

Notice how Emily's dashes change the apparent rhythm of her hymn-like verses - somebody said you could sing most of her poems to the tune of Amazing Grace. I've tried it out on a few and it's true!

In the rather excellent bookshop, fairly recently opened, in Edinburgh (it has a branch in St Andrews which we love), I had the choice of three Emily books plus the 700 page version. I decided to go for the slim ff version, chosen by Ted Hughes, essentially because I enjoyed his foreword and he gave a great case for the retention of the dash. One of the others had clearly introduced alien punctuation, and it just didn't feel right. I shall get my 'Amazing Grace' practiced and give it a try. Thanks.

[Padraig]

Maybe unheard melodies are sweeter, but heard poetry is hard to better. Yeats read by a master.

I could not find the 'interesting youtube' thread.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cN_VPtGfsw0

[johncorrigan]

In the dying embers of National Poetry Day I came upon this poem by Raymond Carver that seemed somehow pertinent.

Company

This morning I woke up to rain
on the glass. And understood
that for a long time now
I've chosen the corrupt when
I had a choice. Or else,
simply, the merely easy.
Over the virtuous. Or the difficult.
This way of thinking happens
when I've been alone for days.
Like now. Hours spent
in my own dumb company.
Hours and hours
much like a little room.
With just a strip of carpet to walk on.

Raymond Carver

You all take care in there, now!

[Padraig]

In the dying embers of National Poetry Day I came upon this poem by Raymond Carver that seemed somehow pertinent.

Company

This morning I woke up to rain
on the glass. And understood
that for a long time now
I've chosen the corrupt when
I had a choice. Or else,
simply, the merely easy.
Over the virtuous. Or the difficult.
This way of thinking happens
when I've been alone for days.
Like now. Hours spent
in my own dumb company.
Hours and hours
much like a little room.
With just a strip of carpet to walk on.

Raymond Carver

You all take care in there, now!

Honest Raymond Carver. One of the disadvantages of total isolation. Not nearly as bad for me, I think.

Thanks for your good wishes to us all, John, which I heartily second. But I have to remind you that hugging is out.

[johncorrigan]

Honest Raymond Carver. One of the disadvantages of total isolation. Not nearly as bad for me, I think.

Thanks for your good wishes to us all, John, which I heartily second. But I have to remind you that hugging is out.

It was a virtual hug, Padraig, but no less meant. Glorious spring day here today. A virtual

[Padraig]

It was a virtual hug, Padraig, but no less meant. Glorious spring day here today. A virtual

I was really only pulling your leg, John. Nice here too; just back from a walk round Madam's Bank Road.

[johncorrigan]

I was really only pulling your leg, John. Nice here too; just back from a walk round Madam's Bank Road.

Me and Mrs C took a walk round the Corbennic Poetry Path just outside of Dunkeld on the road to the Sma' Glen, Padraig. Nicola Sturgeon, who has performed very well in this crisis, so far, had made the announcement that unnecessary travel to the Scottish Islands was now discouraged as was travel on the Calmac Ferries, which put the final nail in our annual Easter week on Iona...well we knew it was coming, but still so disappointing. Just after that on the Poetry Path, I came upon this short piece carved into slate by Kenneth Steven - Ken is also an Ionaphile, so I am sure his poem was about Columba's Island.

In
all
the
hurry
of
our
lives
we
need
so
much
just
now
and
then
to
find
an
island.

Kenneth Steven

[Padraig]

John, that's a lovely idea - the Poetry Path, and that poem carved in slate is fittingly ancient looking enough to be genuine Ionian. But, you know Derry has a big claim on Columba. We have St.Columb's Cathedral, St.Columb's College, St.Columba's Church - all within walking distance of each other in a historic area of the city within and without the Walls. He is the 'patron of our town' as the hymn says. An ecumenical congregation sings the hymn in this clip in the Great Hall of Derry's Guildhall. I have not sung this since I was a primary school pupil. (We placed great stress on the final syllable of Colum- BA, despite the efforts of the teacher. Try it - it was fun.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OzIQTHwn60

PS I forgot to point out that the opening shot in the video depicts Columba's departure for Iona in the stained glass window.

[DracoM]

That calls for an encore!

The poem 'The Chariot' was published shortly after Emily's death. It was an edited version to fit prevailing beliefs about death and proper attitudes to it, and was in the first commercial publication to bring Dickinson's poetry to a wider audience. Other more scholarly editions have since appeared and which have restored the original texts - which of course did not have titles.




Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me -
The Carriage held but just Ourselves -
And Immortality.

We slowly drove - He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labour and my leisure too,
For His Civility -

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess - in the Ring -
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain -
We passed the Setting Sun -

Or rather - He passed Us -
The Dews grew quivering and Chill -
For only Gossamer, my Gown -
My Tippet - only Tulle -

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground -
The Roof was scarcely visible -
The Cornice - in the Ground -

Since then - 'tis Centuries - and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were towards Eternity -

Emily Dickinson 1863 Published 1890

One of my VERY great favourites - many thanks.

[johncorrigan]

John, that's a lovely idea - the Poetry Path, and that poem carved in slate is fittingly ancient looking enough to be genuine Ionian. But, you know Derry has a big claim on Columba. We have St.Columb's Cathedral, St.Columb's College, St.Columba's Church - all within walking distance of each other in a historic area of the city within and without the Walls. He is the 'patron of our town' as the hymn says. An ecumenical congregation sings the hymn in this clip in the Great Hall of Derry's Guildhall. I have not sung this since I was a primary school pupil. (We placed great stress on the final syllable of Colum- BA, despite the efforts of the teacher. Try it - it was fun.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OzIQTHwn60

PS I forgot to point out that the opening shot in the video depicts Columba's departure for Iona in the stained glass window.

Looks like the congregation is trying to put a good bit of stress on the BA there, Padraig - following in your footsteps clearly - I enjoyed joining in - can't help it really. I seem to recall that we went to Glencolumkille many years ago where Columba is supposed to have set sail from - thatched cottages come to mind. Interestingly, Dunkeld also has a St Columba Cathedral as his bones were moved there to escape the marauding Vikings who would have seen them as powerful treasure.

Just up from the poetry path is Amulree, which some people believe to be a corruption in Gaelic from the 'Ford of the bald Ruah(not sure of spelling), he being one of Columba's disciples who travelled by sea, river and loch across the heart of Scotland to preach to the Picts.

The poetry path was put in place by the gardener at Corbennic, which is a Camphill residence, and he is an Irish poet, Jon Plunkett. It takes about an hour and a half to walk round and takes you through forest, wood, moor and down to the beautiful River Braan. There's about 30 poems and some sculptures too...beautiful place.

https://www.corbenicpoetrypath.com/#

[DracoM]

Really do recommend the poetry of RS Thomas esp his collection 'Residues' publ Bloodaxe.

[johncorrigan]

Scotland's Makar, Jackie Kay, was a wee bit younger when she wrote 'Sassenachs' about her first journey to London with her pal, Jenny. It took me back to times gone by, hanging about with a pal that you really liked, but was capable of embarrassing you.


Sassenachs

Me and my best pal (well, she was
till a minute ago) are off to London.
First trip on an InterCity alone.
When we got on we were the same
kind of excited – jigging on our seats,
staring at everyone. But then,
I remembered I was to be sophisticated
So when Jenny starts shouting,
‘Look at that, the land’s flat already,’
when we are just outside Glasgow
(Motherwell actually) I feel myself flush.
Or even worse, ‘Sassenach country.
Wey Hey Hey.’ The tartan tammy
sitting proudly on top of her pony;
the tartan scarf swinging like a tail.
The nose pressed to the window.
‘England’s not so beautiful, is it?’
And we haven’t even crossed the border.
And the train’s jazzy beat joins her:
Sassenachs sassenachs here we come.
Sassenachs sassenachs Rum Tum Tum.
Sassenachs sassenachs how do you do.
Sassenachs sassenachs we’ll get you.
Then she loses momentum, so out come
the egg mayonnaise sandwiches and
the big bottle of bru. ‘Ma ma’s done us proud,’
says Jenny, digging in, munching loud.
The whole train is an egg and I’m inside it.
I try and remain calm; Jenny starts it again,
Sassenachs sassenachs Rum Tum Tum.

Finally, we get there: London, Euston;
and the very first person on the platform
gets asked – ‘Are you a genuine sassenach?’
I want to die, but instead I say, Jenny.
He replies in that English way –
‘I beg your pardon,’ and Jenny screams
‘Did you hear that Voice?’
And we both die laughing, clutching
our stomachs at Euston station.

Jackie Kay