Poetry Discussion

[EMDEE]

Better not speak too soon. I've put a washing on to try it out. Famous last words etc.

The washing machine has become the bane of my life over the last couple of days.

To get back on thread, this poem is one of the most influential of the 18th Century. The fact that when we read through it we find that we recognise quotations that are in modern usage speaks for itself. The poem paints an eerie picture of the churchyard and sets the scene before Gray gets into his philosophical mode, which helps us to appreciate what he is saying. Gray took quite a few years over the writing of this poem, and the impact that it has made has been enhanced by his revisiting it over a number of years.

To follow up on the comment on the purpose of memorials, and the quotation from the Elegy, Burns himself used a quotation from this poem, and in the same verse form wrote the following for inscription on the grave of Fergusson (on a gravestone that he himself paid for):

"No scultured marble here nor pompous lay,
No storied urn nor animated bust,
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way,
To pour her sorrow o'er the Poet's dust.

She mourns sweet tuneful youth , thy hapless fate,
Though all the powers of song thy fancy fired,
Yet luxury and wealth lay by in State,
And, thankless, starv'd what they so much admir'd.

This humble tribute with a tear he gives,
A brother Bard, he can no more bestow,
But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives,
A nobler monument than art can show."


It would appear that Burns himself appreciated the message of Thomas Gray.

[Govangirl]

Very interesting Emdee.

I was thinking of you when I read the following stanza:

'Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.'

The humblest man in that graveyard could have held the highest office in the land if only he had been given the opportunity. And if given that same opportunity, any one of them could have become a great musician if given the opportunity to "wake up" the notes of the lyre (or any instrument). I recall you discussing the great wealth of young musical talent in Kintyre. How much of this can be put down to opportunity?

And then the powerful stanza that comes next about WHY they didn't get the opportunity:

'But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.'

The idea of them never being given any knowledge, never have been exposed to any books and poverty being a repressive force that destroyed any ideas they had, is quite a depressing one.
I think the poem is akin to Shakespeare.

[EMDEE]

"Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys-
What wealth could never give nor take away!"

Burns-On hearing a thrush sing in a morning walk in January

Just to digress, and on the subject of musicians, this Burns quotation is engraved on the memorial stone to Peter Milne (1824-1908) in The Square, in Tarland, Aberdeenshire. Milne, who was known as "The Tarland Minstrel" was a master fiddle player and composer who lived a very disjointed and itinerant life, and in fact finished his playing career as a busker on the ferries crossing the Firth of Forth, but in spite of this he became one of the greats in the history of Scottish Fiddle Music. Not a household name, but among fiddle players, a much respected name. I think the quotation is very apt in that his artistic qualities and fulfillment in what he was doing, together with his musical legacy, could not be bought with money, although there is an underlying implication that he could have had an easier life if financial success had come his way, and that many historical figures in the arts are more highly thought of when they are gone.

There is also the idea that these "purer joys" are worth more than money, which I suppose they are when one is dead.

I would suggest that this proves the opposite of what Gray is saying in his Elegy, and that some individuals can achieve greatness in spite of their circumstances. Burns himself, as we know, lived his life in poverty and yet became a world renowned literary figure. But then, to quote another prominent Scottish fiddle player, J Scott Skinner (1843-1927) (incidentally, a pupil of Milne) "Talent does what it can, genius does what it must" Of course, Skinner suffered from a severe overdose of high self-esteem, and was indirectly referring to himself when he wrote this. The trouble is, his high opinion of himself was justifiable.

[EMDEE]

Erratum:

I've checked out the above quote "Talent does what it can, genius does what it must", and find that it is a quote from English dramatist Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873). Skinner used it in one of his publications without crediting it, and by this omission, implied it was his own. I would still submit that he applied it to himself.

[EMDEE]

Better not speak too soon. I've put a washing on to try it out. Famous last words etc.

The washing machine has become the bane of my life over the last couple of days.

It's working at long last!

[A Horse called Juan Face]

Where can a simple horse read such poems?

[Govangirl]

They'll all be easily available on the internet, Horse. Come to think of it, we should just post whatever we're discussing onto the thread so it is accessible if you're referring to it. The poem is as follows:

Thomas Gray's Elegy
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard


The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain,
Of such as wand'ring near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, and the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care,
No children run to lisp their Sire's return,
Nor climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke,
How jocund did they drive their team afield,
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stoke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure,
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th'inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid,
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll,
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear,
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The treats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes.

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone,
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined:
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenious shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,
With incense, kindled at the muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memories still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and epitaph supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralists to die.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resing'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate:
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate.

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn',
'Brushing with hasty steps the dews away',
'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn'.

'There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech',
'That wreaths its old fantastic roots so high',
'His listless length at noontide would he stretch',
'And pore upon the brook, that babbles by'.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn',
'Muttering his wayward fancies, would he rove';
'Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forelorn',
'Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love'.

'One morn I miss'd him from the custom'd hill',
'Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree';
'Another came; nor yet beside the rill',
'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he'.

'The next with dirges due in sad array,'
'Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne',
'Approach and read, for thou cans't read, the lay',
'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn'.


The Epitaph
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his father, and his God.


What about the epitaph? I like the idea that this young boy lived a totally unremarkable life yet this is seen as a blessing. He gained no fame or fortune but still became a scholar. I suppose society then was exactly the same as today in the way fame and 'celebrity-status' and fortune is glorified. Gray believed that education could give people opportunities to develop and become better people but it could also lead them to corruption:

'Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;'

I'm not sure if I like that mind you - that it's just as well they weren't educated or they'd learn how to commit more crime! Seems a bit superior.

Anyway, let's see how a younger poster thinks and perhaps you could suggest a poem Horse that we could discuss next? Or anyone else for that matter!

[Govangirl]

Anyone got a favourite poem they'd like to discuss?

[numberplease]

I loved John Masefield when I was at school in the 50s, but I`m afraid I can only remember snippets now, shameful I know.

[Govangirl]

I loved John Masefield when I was at school in the 50s, but I`m afraid I can only remember snippets now, shameful I know.

Then why don't we discuss the very beautiful 'Sea Fever' or 'Cargoes' then? I know they're short so wouldn't be a long discussion but could be quite interesting.

[numberplease]

My 2 favourites!And there was another about the west wind, but I can`t remember it, and another about roads I think. Sorry I`m a bit vague, but I`m a bit of an old fogey now, my memory`s not what it was!
The thing about Cargoes I remember was wondering what all these things the ships were carrying really were. Quinquireme of Ninevah and Gold Moidors? And I love the last verse.
And then every time I`m by the sea on a wet or windy day I think of Sea Fever.

[Martin]

There's a poem by Thomas Hood called I Remember. Many years ago, back in the late Seventies, in the Radio Times one of their writers did a different version. I can't remember his name after all this time but the poem has stuck with me.....

I remember, I remember
The house where I was born
The back to back with outside bog
And half the windows gorn

I remember, I remember
The bugs that used to bite
The racket when the pubs were shut
The noise went on all night

I had to share, 'till I was ten
The bed my brother wet
The rat that nibbled at our feet
Became a household pet

My dad was mostly out of work
And hung around all day
My mum went spare and fought the law
When he was took away

I remember, I remember
I learnt to steal and lie
That's when I found that paradise
Was something in the sky

Now they tell me I'm a hopeless case
No gaffer would employ
Too bad they didn't think of that
When I was still a boy.

[hugh]

Numberplease. Re roads.

Robert Frost. The road in the woods? G.K. Chesterton. The rolling English road? Love 'em both.

Emdee, Govanlgirl et al....lots of stuff happening, still reading, just not commenting, not that anybody cares..., just pushed for time. I should be back before Christmas, but this is just to say that I'd a' loved to comment on "Elegy" if I'd had the time.

P.S. Masefield's use of rhythm was brilliant.

P.P.S. Tell Ionnsaigh not to start the revolution before ne'erday, I got stuff planned.

[Govangirl]

Martin, funnily enough, I read that version somewhere in the last few weeks but can't recall where.Thing is, let's not open it for discussion because Ionnsaigh will come in and talk about his paradise of a childhood again and I can't face another shi**y dog in the backyard tale!

Hugh, we do care and it would have been great to hear your views on the elegy. Is it common knowledge where you are because it's becoming a bit of a mystery - you're not 'inside' are you?

And numberplease, can we go with your suggestion of Masefield? We can comment on either poem. Hugh's right, the use of rhythm is something else. Here are the poems for discussion:



Sea-Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.


Cargoes

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amythysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.


I can well remember hearing Cargoes at school and teaching it in my first ten-fifteen years but likes and dislikes change and canons get revised so we don't hear it so much now. When I was young, probably about fourteen, I recall the teacher explaining the exotic opulence of the two ships in the first two stanzas yet the contrast of the British coaster was, for her, the majestic one even though the cargo was rather duller with it's wood and coal. I couldn't understand that when reading about the magnificent precious cargoes of the others but now I do as she said it reminded her of her dad. No doubt it tied her to her sailor father 'butting through the Channel' or down the Clyde. To me it was all about romance and adventure on the high seas!

[numberplease]

Govan girl, both poems are wonderful because they make it possible to bring a picture to mind of everything Masefield talks about in them, I think they`re both rather beautiful.
Hugh, re roads, and the wind, I was thinking in connection with Masefield, vaguely remembering them from school, a very long time ago.